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AUTUMN LEAYES 



ORIGINAL PIECES 



PROSE AND VERSE 

" Our wits are so diversely colored."' — Shakespb.vre. 



CAMBRIDGE: 

JOHN BARTLETT. 

1853. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 

John Bartlett, 

in the Clerk'a Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 






CAMBRIDGE: 
METCALF AND COMPANY, PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 









NOTE 



The pieces gathered into this volume were, with 
two exceptions, written for the entertainment of a 
private circle, without any view to publication. The 
editor would express her thanks to the writers, who, 
at her solicitation, have allowed them to be printed. 
They are published with the hope of aiding a work 
of charity, — the establishment of an Agency for the 
benefit of the poor in Cambridge, — to which the 
proceeds of the sale will be devoted. 

AKNE W. ABBOT. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Christmas Eevived 1 

In tpie Churchyard at Cambridge. A Legend op 

Lady Lee. — H. W. L^„..4^ -u . ... 11 

The Little South-Wind a^-w^*/ C%c< , . . 13 

Lines written at the Close of Dr. Holmes's Lec- 
tures ON English Poetry . . . . 16 
, ,'■•■■ '•' ■■■■ ' 
Aunt Molly. A Keminiscence op Old Cambridge 22 

The Sounds op Morning in Cambridge . . 30 

The Sounds op Evening in Cambridge ... 35 

To the Near-sighted . . . ^^^ . . 41 

Flowers from A Student's Walks . . . • ^^ 

Miseries. No. 1. , . 52 

" No. 2. A Dark Night "'.... 57 

« No. 3. Twine 62 

" No. 4. Fresh Air 67 

Farewell . . . ... . . . "4 



VI CONTENTS. 

Innocent Surprises 77 

The Old Sailor 81 

Laughter . . . . . . . • • .91 

To Stephen 95 

The Old Church . '.' ^ \. . . . .98 

"Something than beauty dearer" . . . 104 

A Tale found in the Repositories of the Abbots 

of the Middle Ages 106 

The Sea 115 

Fashion ". . 119 

A Growl 123 

To Jenny Lind . . .' . . . , . 128 

My Herbarium 130 

The Ostrich ......... 138 

Cows .A 4^- ^ j^2 

The Home-Beacon . . '^V'***^^ ... 146 

The Fourth of July 153 

From the Papers of Reginald Ratcliffe, Esq. 158 



AUTUMN LEAVES 



CHRISTMAS REVIVED. 



It was six o'clock in the morning of last 
Thursday (Christmas morning), when Nathan 
Stoddard, a young saddler, strode through the 
vacant streets of one of our New England towns, 
hastening to begin his work. The town is an 
old-fashioned one, and although the observance 
of the ancient church festival is no longer 
frowned upon, as in years past, yet it has been 
little regarded, especially in the church of which 
Nathan is a member. As the saddler mounted the 
steps of his shop, he felt the blood so rush along 
his limbs, and tingle in his fingers, that he could 
not forbear standing without the door for a mo- 
ment, as if to enjoy the triumph of the warmth 
within him over the cold morning air. The lit- 
tle stone church which Nathan attends stands in 
the same square with his shop, and nearly oppo- 
1 



CHRISTMAS REVIVED. 



% 



site. It was closed, as usual on Christmas day, 
and a recent snow had heaped the steps and 
roof, and loaded the windows. Nathan thought 
that it looked uncommonly beautiful in the 
softening twilight of the morning. 

While Nathan stood musing, with his eyes 
fixed upon the church, he became suddenly con- 
scious that another figure had entered the square 
upon the opposite side, and was walking hastily 
along. He turned his eyes upon it, and was 
greatly surprised by its appearance. He saw 
a tall old man, although a good deal stoop- 
ing, with long, straight, and very white hair fall- 
ing over his shoulders, which was the more con- 
spicuous from the black velvet cap, as it ap- 
peared, that he wore, and the close-fitting suit 
of pure black in which he was dressed, and 
which seemed to Nathan almost to glisten and 
flash as the old man tripped along. He had 
hardly begun to speculate as to who the stranger 
could be, when he beheld him turn in between 
the posts by the path that leads to the church, 
tread lightly over the snow, and up the steps, 
and knock hastily and vigorously at the church- 
door. But half recovered from his wonder, he 
was just raising his voice to utter a remon- 



CHRISTMAS REVIVED. ^ 

strance, when, to his sevenfold amazement, the 
door was opened to the knock, and the old man 
disappeared within. 

It was not without a creeping feeling of awe, 
mingled with his astonishment, that Nathan 
gazed upon the door through which this silent 
figure had vanished. But he was not easily to 
be daunted. He did not care to follow the steps 
of the stranger into the church; but he remem- 
bered a shed so placed against the building, near 
the farther end, that he had often, when a child, 
at some peril indeed, climbed upon its top, and 
looked into the church through a little window 
at one side of the pulpit. For this he started ; 
but he did not fail to run across the square and 
leap over the church-gate at the top of his speed, 
in order to gather warmth and courage for the 
attempt. 

When Nathan Stoddard climbed upon the old 
shed and pressed his face against the glass of 
the little church-window, he had at first only a 
confused impression of many lamps and many 
figures in all parts of the church. But as his 
vision grew more clear, he beheld a sight which 
could not amaze him less than the apparition 
that startled Tam o' Shanter as he glared through 



CHRISTMAS REVIVED. 



the darkness into the old Kirk of Alloway. The 
great chandelier of the church was partly light- 
ed, and there were, besides, many candles and 
lanterns burning in different parts of the room, 
and casting their light upon a large party of 
young men and women, who were dressed in 
breeches and ruffled shirts, and hooped petti- 
coats and towering head-dresses, such as he had 
only seen in old pictures. They were mounted 
upon benches and ladders, and boards laid along 
the tops of the pews, and were apparently just 
completing the decoration of the church, which 
was already dressed with green, with little trees 
in the corners, and with green letters upon the 
walls, and great wreaths about the pillars. The 
whole party appeared full of life and cheerful- 
ness, while the old man whom Nathan had seen 
enter stood near the door, looking quietly on, 
with a little girl holding his hand. 

It was not until Nathan Stoddard had looked 
for some little time upon this spectacle that he 
began to feel that he was witness of any thing 
more than natural. The whole party had so 
home-like an air, and appeared so engaged with 
their pleasant occupation, that, notwithstanding 
their quaint dress, Nathan only thought how 



CHRISTMAS REVIVED. O 

much he should like to share their company. 
But the more he studied their faces, the more he 
was filled, for all their appearance of youth and 
their simple manners, with a strange sort of 
veneration. The sweet and cheerful faces of the 
young women seemed to grow awfully calm 
and beautiful as they brought their task to a 
close, and their foreheads, with the hair brought 
back in the old-fashioned way, to become more 
and more serene and high. There was a strange 
beauty, too, about the old man's face. He ap- 
peared to Nathan as if he felt that the group 
before him only waited his command to fade 
away in the morning light that struggled among 
the candles, but he could not bear to give the 
word ; and so they kept playing with the fes- 
toons, and stepping about the pews to please 
him. Nathan felt a cold thrill, partly from 
pleasure, and partly from awe, running up his 
back, and a strong pain across his forehead, sel- 
dom known to one of his temperament. Again 
and again he drew his hand across his brows, 
until he felt that he was near swooning, and 
like to fall ; and he clung desperately to his hold. 
When the fit was over, he dared venture no 
more, but hastened to the ground. 



6 CHRISTMAS REVIVED. 

It was no fear of ridicule or of incredulity that 
led Nathan Stoddard to keep secret what he had 
witnessed. But it was like sonae deep and holy- 
experience that would lose its charm if it were 
spoken of to another. So he went back to his 
shop, and sat looking upon the church, and 
watching, almost with dread, the doves that 
lighted upon its roof, and fluttered about, and 
beat their wings against its windows. 

The minister of Nathan's parish was a young 
man by the name of Dudley ; and it so hap- 
pened that he had driven out, before light, on 
the morning we have spoken of, to visit a sick 
man at some distance. In returning home, he 
had to pass along the rather unfrequented street 
w^hich runs in the rear of his church, and close 
to it. As he was driving rapidly along, his ear 
caught what seemed the peal of an organ. He 
stopped his horse to listen, and a moment con- 
vinced him that the sound both of the instru- 
ment and of singing voices came from his own 
church ; and it was music of a depth and beauty 
such as he had never before heard within it. 
Filled with astonishment, he put his horse upon 
its fastest trot, and drove round into the square, 
to the shop of Nathan Stoddard. 



CHRISTMAS REVIVED. 7 

" There is music to-day in our church, 
Nathan ! " he cried to the young saddler. 
" What can it mean ? " But Nathan answered 
not a word. He caught the horse by the head, 
and fastened him to a post before the door. 
Then stepping to the side of the sleigh, he said 
to Mr. Dudley, <' Come with me. Sir." Mr. 
Dudley looked upon the pale face and trembling 
lips of his parishioner, and followed in silence. 

Nathan sprang upon the shed at the side of 
the church, and scrambled up to the little win- 
dow. Mr. Dudley followed, and, with Nathan's 
help, gained the same precarious foothold. 
" Look in. Sir," said Nathan, not venturing a 
glance himself. Mr. Dudley looked, and had 
not Nathan's arm been about his body he would 
have lost his hold, in sheer amazement. The 
building was crowded, as he had never known 
it before; and crowded with people whom his 
eye, versed in the dress and manners of our fore- 
fathers, recognized as the church-goers of a cen- 
tury and a half ago. The singers' gallery was 
filled by a choir of girls and boys, while his own 
place in the pulpit was occupied by a white- 
haired figure, whom he recognized as the original 
of a portrait which he had purchased and hung 



8 



CHRISTMAS REVIVED. 



in his parlor at home for its singular beauty. It 
was said to be a portrait of a minister in the 
town, who lived in the last century, and is still 
remembered for his virtues. The sight of this 
old man's face completely stilled the agitation 
of the young minister. He was leaning over 
the great Bible, with his hands folded upon it, 
and his eyes seemingly filled with tears of pleas- 
ure and gratitude, and bent upon the choir. Mr. 
Dudley listened intently, and could catch what 
seemed the words of some old Christmas carol : 

" Thou mak'st my cup of joy run o'er." 

And he was so rapt with the sights and the 
sounds within, that it needed all Nathan's en- 
deavors to uphold him. 

By this time the sound of a gathering crowd 
below, which he had not heeded at first, was 
forced more and more upon his notice ; and the 
anxious voice of his oldest deacon calling, " Mr. 
Dudley! Mr. Dudley!" rose high and loud; 
while a great thundering at the front door of the 
church announced that the people below had 
also caught the sound of the music, and were 
clamorous for admission. Mr. Dudley hastened 
round to prevent their causing any disturbance 



CHRISTMAS REVIVED. ^ 

to the congregation within ; but he came only 
in time to see the door burst open, and to be 
borne in with the crowd. All gazed about in 
wonder. The congregation, indeed, were gone, 
and the preacher, and the choir ; and the room 
was cold. But there was a great green cross 
over the pulpit, and words along the walls, and 
festoons upon the galleries, and great wreaths, 
like vast green serpents, coiled about the cold 
pillars. The church of the Orthodox parish of 

had been fairly dressed for Christmas by 

spirit hands. 

When Mr. Dudley reached his home, after the 
wonder had in part spent itself, he found that 
an enormous Christmas pie had been left at his 
door by a white-haired old man dressed in black, 
about six in the morning, just after he had gone 
to visit his sick parishioner. The girl who re- 
ceived it reported the old man as saying, in a 
tremulous, but very kind voice, " Give your 
master the Christmas blessing of an old Puritan 
minister." How the meaning of this message 
would have been known to Mr. Dudley, had not 
the events we have told disclosed it, who can 
say? 

Need I add, that my friend, Mr. Dudley, from 



10 CHRISTMAS REVIVED. 

whose lips I have taken down the above narra- 
tive, has directed the decorations to remain in 
his church during the coming month, and that 
he avows the intention of observing the Christ- 
mas of the following year with public services, 
unless, indeed, he should be anticipated by his 
ancient predecessor. It may not be impertinent 
to observe, that I am invited to dine and spend 
the day with the Dudleys on that occasion, and I 
shall not fail to make an accurate report of what- 
ever glimpse I may obtain into the mysterious 
ceremonies of a Puritan Christmas. 



IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. 



A LEGEND OF LADY LEE. 



In the village churchyard she lies, 
Dust is in her beautiful eyes, 

No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs ; 
At her feet and at her head 
Lies a slave to attend the dead. 

But their dust is white as hers. 

Was she, a lady of high degree, 
So much in love with the vanity 

And foolish pomp of this world of ours ? 
Or was it Christian charity, 
And lowliness and humility, 

The richest and rarest of all dowers ? 

Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; 
No color shoots into those cheeks. 
Either of anger or of pride. 



12 IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. 

At the rude question we have asked ; — 
Nor will the mystery be unmasked 
By those who are sleeping at her side. 

Hereafter ? — And do you think to look 
On the terrible pages of that Book 

To find her failings, faults, and errors ? 
Ah, you will then have other cares. 
In your own short-comings and despairs. 

In your own secret sins and terrors ! 

H. w. L. 



THE LITTLE SOUTH-WIND. 



The little south-wind had been shut up for 
many days, while his cousin from the northeast 
had been abroad, and the clouds had been heavy 
and dark ; but now all was bright and clear, and 
the little south-wind was to have a holiday. 
O, how happy he would be ! He saUied forth 
to amuse himself; — and hear what he did. He 
came whistling down the chimney, until the 
nervous old lady was ready to fly with vexation : 
then away he flew, laughing in triumph, — the 
naughty south-wind!' He played with the 
maiden's work: away the pieces flew, some 
here, some there, and away ran the maiden after. 
What cared she for the wind ? She tossed back 
her curls and laughed merrily, and the wiftd 
laughed merrily too, — the silly south-wind ' 
Onward he stole, and lifting the curtain, — curi- 



14 THE LITTLE SOUTH-WIND. 

ons south-wind I — what did he see ? On the 
sofa lay a young man: a heavy book was in his 
hand. The little south-wind rustled through 
the leaves, but the young man stirred not; he 
was asleep ; hot and weary, he slept. The 
wind fanned his brow awhile, lifted his dark 
locks, and, leaving a kiss behind, stole out at the 
casement, — the gentle south-wind ! Then he 
met a little child: away he whirled the little 
boy's hat, away ran the child, but his little feet 
were tired, and he wept, — poor child! The 
wind looked back, and felt sad, then hung the 
hat on a bush, and went on. He had played 
too hard, — the thoughtless south-wind ! A sick 
child lay tossing to and fro : its hands and face 
were hot and dry. The mother raised the win- 
dow. The wind heard her as he was creeping 
by, and stepping in, he cooled the burning face : 
then, playing among the flowers until their fra- 
grance filled the room, away he flew, — the kind 
south-wind ! He went out into the highway, 
and played with the dust; but that was not so 
pleasant, and onward he sped to the meadow. 
The dust could not follow on the green grass, 
and the little south-wind soon outstripped it, 
and onward and onward he sped, over mountain 



THE LITTLE SOUTH-WIND. 



15 



and valley, dancing among the flowers, and 
frolicking round, until the trees lifted up their 
arms and bent their heads and shook their sides 
with glee, — the happy south-wind! At last he 
came to a quiet dell, where a little brook lay, 
just stirring among his white pebbles. The 
wind said, " Kind brook, will you play with 
me ? " And the brook answered with a sparkling 
smile, and a gentle murmur. Then the wind 
rose up, and, sporting among the dark pines, 
whistled and sung through the lofty branches, 
while the pretty brook danced along, and 
warbled songs to the music of its merry com- 
panion, — the merry south- wind! But the sun 
had gone down and the stars were peeping 
forth, and the day was done. The happy south- 
wind was still, and the moon looked down on 
the world below, and watched among the trees 
and hills, but all w^as still : the little south-wind 
slumbered, and the moon and the stars kept 
guard, — poor, tired south-wind ! Old lady and 
maiden, young man and child, the dust and the 
flowers, were forgotten, and he slept, — dear 
little south- wind! 



LINES 



WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF DR. HOLMES'S LECTURES ON 
ENGLISH POETRY.* 



Farewell ! farewell! The hours we 've stolen 
From scenes of worldly strife and stir, 

To live with poets, and with thee. 
Their brother and interpreter, 

Have brought us wealth ; — as thou hast reaped. 

We have not followed thee in vain, 
But gathered, in one precious sheaf, 

The pearly flower and golden grain. 

* The Poets are metaphorically introduced as follows. Rog- 
ers, The Beech; — Campbell, The Fir; — Btkon, Tlie Oak: 
— Moore, The Elm; — Scott, TAe C7ies«nMf ;— Southet, Tlve 
i7o% ;— Coleridge, The Magnolia; — K^eats, Tlie Orange; — 
Wordsworth, The Pine; — Tennyson, The Palm ; — Felicia 
Hemans, The ZocMsf ; — Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 
The Laurel. 



DR. IIOLMES'S LECTURES. 17 

For twelve bright hours, with thee we walked 

Within a magic garden's bound, 
Where trees, whose birth owned various dimes, 

Beneath one sky were strangely found. 

First in the group, an ancient Beech 
His shapely arms abroad did fling, 

Wearing old Autumn's russet crown 
Among the lively tints of Spring. 

Those pale brown leaves the winds of March 

Made vocal 'mid the silent trees. 
And spread their faint perfume abroad. 

Like sad, yet pleasant memories. 

Near it, the vigorous, noble Fir 
Arose, with firm yet graceful mien ; 

Welcome for shelter or for shade, 
A pyramid of living green. 

And from the tender, vernal spray 
The sunny air such fragrance drew. 

As breathes from fields of strawberries wild, 
All bathed in morning's freshest dew. 

The Oak his branches richly green 
Broad to the winds did wildly fling ; — 
2 



18 



The first in beauty and in power, 
All bowed before the forest-king. 

But ere its brilliant leaves were sere, 
Or scattered by the Autumn \yind. 

Fierce lightnings struck its glories down. 
And left a blasted trunk behind. 

A youthful Elm its drooping boughs 
In graceful beauty bent to earth. 

As if to touch, with reverent love. 
The kindly soil that gave it birth ; — 

And round it, in such close embrace. 
Sweet honeysuckles did entwine. 

We knew not if the south wind caught 
Its odorous breath from tree or vine. 

The Chestnut tall, with shining leaves 
And yellow tassels covered o'er. 

The sunny Summer's golden pride. 
And pledge of Autumn's ruddy store, - 

Though grander forms might near it rise, 
And sweeter blossoms scent the air, — 

Was still a favorite 'mongst the trees 
That flourished in that garden fair. 



ON ENGLISH POETRY. 19 

All brightly clad in glossy green, 

And scarlet berries gay to see, 
We welcome next a constant friend. 

The brilliant, cheerful Holly-Tree. 

But twilight falls upon the scene ; 

Rich odors fill the evening air ; 
And, lighting up the dusky shades. 

Gleam the Magnolia's blossoms fair. 

The fire-fly, with its fairy lamp. 

Flashes within its soft green bower ; 

The humming sphinx flits in and out. 
To sip the nectar of its flower. 

Now the charmed air, more richly fraught, 

To steep our senses in delight. 
Comes o'er us, as the Oran.ge-Tree 

In beauty beams upon our sight ; 

And, glancing through its emerald leaves, 
White buds and golden fruits are seen ; 

Fit flowers to deck the bride's pale brow, 
Fit fruit to offer to a queen. 

But let me rest beneath the Pine, 
And listen to the low, sad tone 



20 



Its music breathes, that o*er my soul 
Comes like the ocean's solemn moan. 

Erect it stands in graceful strength ; 

Its spire points upward to the sky ; 
And nestled in its sheltering arms 

The birds of heaven securely lie. 

And though no gaily painted bells, 
Nor odor-bearing urns, are there, 

When the west wind sighs through its boughs, 
Let me inhale the balmy air ! 

The stately Palm in conscious pride 

Lifts its tall column to the sky. 
While round it fragrant air-plants cling, 

Deep-stained with every gorgeous dye. 

Linger with me a moment, where 
The Locust trembles in the breeze, 

In soft, transparent verdure drest. 
Contrasting with the darker trees. 

The humming-bird flies in among 

Its boughs, with pure white clusters hung. 

And honey-bees come murmuring, where 
Its perfume on the air is flung. 



ON ENGLISH POETRY. 21 

A noble Laurel meets our gaze, 
Ere yet we leave these alleys green. 

'Mongst many stately, fair, and sweet, 
The Daphne odora stands a queen. 

May 2, 1853. 



AUNT MOLLY. 



A REMINISCENCE OF OLD CAMBRIDGE. 



In looking back upon my early days, one of 
the images that rises most vividly to my mind's 

eye is that of Miss Molly , or Aunt Molly, 

as she was called by some of her little favorites, 
that is to say, about a dozen girls, and (not com- 
plimentary to the ^^/^fair sex, to be sure) one boy. 
There was one, who, even to Miss Molly, was 
not a torment and a plague ; and I must confess 
he was a pleasant specimen of the genus. At 
the time of which I speak, the great awkward 
barn of a school-house on the Common, near the 
Appian Way, had not reared its imposing front. 
In its place, in the centre of a grass-plot that 
was one of the very first to look green in spring, 
and kept its verdure through the heats of July, 
stood the brown, one-storied cottage which she 



AUNT MOLLY. 23 

owned, and in which the aged woman lived, 
alone. Her garden and clothes-yard behind the 
house were fenced in; but in front, the visitor to 
the cottage, unimpeded by gate or fence, turned 
up the pretty green slope directly from the street 
to the lowly door. 

As I have started for a walk into the old 
times, and am not bound by any rule to stick to 
the point, I will here digress to say that the 
Episcopal Church [the Churchy as it was simply 
called, when all the rest were " meeting-houses "), 
that tells the traveller what a pure and true taste 
was once present in Cambridge, and, by the con- 
trast it presents to the architectural blunders that 
abound in the place, tells also what a want of it 
there is now, — this beautiful church stood most 
appropriately and tastefully surrounded by the 
green turf, unbroken by stiff gravel walks or 
coach sweep, and undivided from the public 
walk by a fence. Behind the church, and form- 
ing a part of its own grounds, (where now exist 
the elegances of School Court,) was an unap- 
propriated field ; and that spot was considered, 
by a certain little group of children, of six or 
seven years old, the most solitary, gloomy, mys- 
terious place in their little world. When the 



24 



AUNT MOLLY. 



colors of sunset had died out in the west, and 
the stillness and shadow of twilight were coming 
on, they used to " snatch a fearful joy " in seeing 
one of their number (whose mother had kindly 
omitted the first lesson usually taught to little 
girls, to be afraid of every thing) perform the 
feat of going slowly around the church, alone, 
stopping behind it to count a hundred. Her 
wonderful courage in actually protecting the 
whole group from what they called a " flock of 
cows," and in stroking and patting the " mad 
dogs" that they were for ever meeting, was 
nothing to this going round the church I 

But to return to the cottage, from which the 
pretty, rural trait of its standing in its unfenced 
green door-yard led me away to notice the same 
sort of rustic beauty where the church stood. 
We did not stop to knock at the outside door, 
— for Aunt Molly was very deaf, and if we had 
knocked our little knuckles off she would not 
have heard us, — but went in, and, passing along 
the passage, rapped at the door of the " common 
room," half sitting-room, half kitchen, and were 
admitted. Those who saw her for the first 
time, whether children or grown people, were 
generally afraid of her; for her voice, unmodu- 



AUNT MOLLY. 25 

lated, of course, by the ear, was naturally harsh, 
strong, and high-toned ; and the sort of half 
laugh, half growl, that she uttered when pleased, 
might have suggested to an imaginative child 
the howl of a wolf. She had very large features, 
and sharp, penetrating black eyes, shaded by 
long, gray lashes, and surmounted by thick, 
bushy, gray eyebrows. I think that when she 
was scolding the school-boys, with those eyes 
fiercely "glowering" at them from under the 
shaggy gray thatch, she must have appeared, to 
those who in their learned page had got as far 
as the Furies, like a living illustration of classic 
lore. Her cap and the make of her dress were 
peculiar, and suggestive of those days before, 
and at the time of, the Revolution, of which she 
loved to speak. 

But we, her little favorites, were not afraid of 
her. To go into her garden in summer, and eat 
currants, larger and sweeter than any we found 
at home, — to look up at the enormous old 
damson-tree, when it was white with blossoms, 
and the rich honey-comb smell was diffused over 
the whole garden, — was a pleasant little excur- 
sion to us. She took great care and pains to save 
the plums from the plundering boys, because it 



26 AUNT MOLLY. 

was the only real damson there was anywhere 
in the neighborhood, and she found a ready sale 
for them, for preserves. She seemed to think 
that the real damsons went out with the real 
gentry of the olden time ; and perhaps they did, 
as damsons, though, for aught I know, they may 
figure now in our fruit catalogues as " The Duke 
of Argyle's New Seedling Acidulated Drop of 
Damascus," — which would be something like a 
translation of Damson into the modern termi- 
nology. 

But more pleasant still was it to go into Annt 
Molly's " best room." The walls she had pa- 
pered herself, with curious stripes and odd 
pieces, of various shapes and patterns, orna- 
mented with a border of figures of little men 
and women joining hands, cut from paper of all 
colors ; and they were adorned, besides, with sev- 
eral prints in shining black frames. There was 
no carpet on the snow-white, unpainted floor, 
but various mats and rugs, of all the kinds into 
which ingenuity has transformed woollen rags, 
were disposed about it. The bed was the pride 
and glory of the room, however ; for on it was 
spread a silk patchwork quilt, made of pieces of 
the brocade and damask and elegant silks, of 



AUNT MOLLY. 27 

which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory- 
families had their gowns and cardinals, and 
other paraphernalia, made. Aunt Molly had 
been a mantuamaker to the old "quality," and 
she could show us a piece of Madam Vassall's 
gown on that wonderful and brilliant piece of 
work, the bed-quilt. " On that hint " she would 
speak. 

" A-haw-awr! They were real gentle folks 
that lived in tlLem days. A-haw-awr I I declare, 
I could e'en-amost kneel down and kiss the very 
airth they trod on, as they went by my house to 
church. Polite, they wor ! Yes, they knew 
what true politeness was ; and to my thinking 
true politeness is next to saving grace." 

Once a year, or so. Aunt Molly would dress 
up in her best gown, a black silk, trimmed with 
real black lace, and a real lace cap, relics of the 
good old days of Toryism and brocade and the 
real gentry, and go to make an afternoon visit 
to one of her neighbors. After the usual saluta- 
tions, the lady would ask her visitor to take off 
her boimet and stay the afternoon, knowing by 
the " rig " that such was her intention. But she 
liked to be urged a little, so she would say, " O, I 
only came out for a little walk, it was so pleas- 



28 AUNT MOLLY. 

ant, and stopped in to see how little Henry did, 
since his sickness. You know I always call him 
my hoyP (Yes, Aunt Molly, the only boy in 
the universe, that, for you, had any good in 
him.) After the proper amount of urging, she 
would lay aside her bonnet and black satin 
mantle, saying, " Well, I didn't come here to get 
my tea, but you are so urgent, I believe I will 
stay." 

Aunt Molly's asides were often amusing. She 
was so very deaf that she could not hear her 
own voice, and often imagined she was whisper- 
ing, when she could be heard across the room. 

On one occasion she saw a gentleman who 
was a stranger to her, in the parlor, when she 
went to visit one of the ladies who were kind 
and attentive to her. She sat a few minutes 
looking keenly at him, and then whispered, 
"Who's that?" "Mr. Jay." "Who?" "Mr. 
Jay." "Who?" "MR. JAY." "Oh— o— oh! 
Mr. Jay. Well, what does he do for a living?" 
"He's a tutor. Ma'am." "What?" "A tu- 
tor." "What?" "A TUTOR." " Oh— o-~ 
oh ! I thought you said a suitor ! " 

Aunt Molly owned the little brown cottage, 
where her widowed mother, she said, had lived, 



AUNT MOLLY. , 29 

and there she died. As soon as she was laid in 
her grave, it was torn down, and the precious 
damson-tree was felled. I was rather glad that 
the school-house was so ugly, that I might have 
a double reason for hating the usurper. If 
Nemesis cares for school-boys, she doubtless 
looks on with a grin, now, to see them scamper- 
ing at their will round the precincts of the former 
enemy of their race, and listens with pleasure 
while they '-make day hideous" where once the 
bee and the humming-bird only broke the quiet 
of the little garden. 

Aunt Molly had a vigorous, active mind, and 
a strong, tenacious memory ; and her love of the 
departed grandeur and Toryism of Court Row, as 
she called that part of Brattle Street from Ash 
Street to Mount Auburn, was pleasant and en- 
tertaining to those who listened to her tales of 
other times. 

Peace to her memory ! 



THE SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE. 



I SING the melodies of early morn. 
Hark ! — 't is the distant roar of iron wheels, 
First sound of busy life, and the shrill neigh 
Of vapor-steed, the vale of Brighton threading. 
Region of lowing kine and perfumed breeze. 
Echoes the shore of blue meandering Charles. 
Straightway the chorus of glad chanticleers 
Proclaims the dawn. First comes one clarion note, 
Loud, clear, and long drawn out ; and hark ! again 
Rises the jocund song, distinct, though distant ; 
Now faint and far, like plaintive cry for help 
Piercing the ear of Sleep. Each knight o' the spur, 
Watchful as brave, and emulous in noise. 
With mighty pinions beats a glad reveille. 
All feathered nature wakes. Man's drowsy sense 
Heeds not the trilling band, but slumbrous waits 
The tardy god of day. Ah ! sluggard, wake ! 



SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE. 31 

Open thy blind, and rub thy heavy eyes ! 

For once behold a sunrise. Is there aught 

In thy dream-world more splendid, or ptiore fair > 

With crimson glory the horizon streams. 

And ghostly Dian hides her face ashamed. 

Now to the ear of him who lingers long 

On downy couch, " falsely luxurious," 

Comes the unwelcome din of college-bell 

Fast tolling. . , . . . 

" 'T is but the earliest, the warning peal ! " 

He sleeps again. Happy if bustling chum. 

Footsteps along the entry, or perchance. 

In the home bower, maternal knock and halloo. 

Shall break the treacherous slumber. For behold 

The youth collegiate sniff the morning zephyrs, 

Breezes of brisk December, frosty and keen. 

With nose incarnadine, peering above 

Each graceful shepherd's plaid the chin enfolding. 

See how the purple hue of youth and health 

Glows in each cheek ; how the sharp wind brings 

pearls 
From every eye, brightening those dimmed with study. 
And waste of midnight oil, o'er classic page 
Long poring. Boreas in merry mood 
Plays with each unkempt lock, and vainly strives 
To make a football of the Freshman's beaver, 
Or the sage Sophomore's indented felt. 



32 SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE. 

Behold the foremost, with deliberate stride 
And slow, approach the chapel, tree-embowered, 
Entering composedly its gaping portal ; 
Then, as the iron tongue goes on to rouse 
The mocking echoes with its call, arrive 
Others, with hastier step and heaving chest. 
Anon, some bound along divergent paths 
Which scar the grassy plain, and, with no pause 
For breath, press up the rocky stair. Straightway, 
A desperate few, with headlong, frantic speed, 
Swifter than arrow-flight or Medford whirlwind, 
Sparks flying from iron-shod heels at every footfall, 
Over stone causeway and tessellated pavement, — 
They come — they come — they leap — they scam- 
per in, 
Ere, grating on its hinges, slams the door 

Inexorable 

Pauses the sluggard, at Wood and Hall's just crossing. 
The chime melodious dying on his ear. 
Embroidered sandals scarce maintain their hold 
Upon his feet, shuffling, with heel exposed. 
And 'neath his upper garment just appears 
A many-colored robe ; about his throat 
No comfortable scarf, but crumpled gills 
Shrink from the scanning eye of passenger 
The omnibus o'erhauling. List ! 't was the last, 
Last stroke ! it dies away, like murmuring wave. 



SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE. 33 

Bootless he came, — and bootless wends he back, 
Gnawing his gloveless thumb, and pacing slow. 
Bright eyes might gaze on him, compassionate, 
But that yon rosy maiden, early afoot, 
Is o'er her shoulder watching, with wild fear, 
A horned host that rushes by amain. 
Bellowing bassoon-like music. Angry shouts 
Of drovers, horrid menace, and dire curse. 
Shrill scream of imitative boy, and crack 
Of cruel whip, the tread of clumsy feet 
Are hurrying on : — but now, with instinct sure. 
Madly those doomed ones bolt from the dread road 
That leads to Brighton and to death. They charge 
Up Brattle Street. Screaming the maiden flies. 
Nor heeds the loss of fluttering veil, upborne 
On sportive breeze, and sailing far away. 
And now a flock of sheep, bleating, bewildered, 
With tiny footprints fret the dusty square. 
And huddling strive to elude relentless fate. 
And hark ! with snuffling grunt, and now and then 
A squeak, a squad of long-nosed gentry run 
The gutters to explore, with comic jerk 
Of the investigating snout, and wink 
At passer-by, and saucy, lounging gait, 
And independent, lash-defying course. 
And now the baker, with his steaming load. 
Hums like the humble-bee from door to door, 
3 



34 SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE. 

And thoughts of breakfast rise ; and harmonies 
Domestic, song of kettle, and hissing urn, 
Glad voices, and the sound of hurrying feet, 
Clatter of chairs, and din of knife and fork, 
Bring to a close the Melodies of Morn. 



THE SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE. 



The Melodies of Morning late I sang. 

Recall we now those Melodies of Even 

Which charmed our ear, the summer-day o'erpast ; 

Full of the theme, O Phcebus, hear me sing. 

What time thy golden car draws near its goal, — 

Mount Auburn's pillared summit, — chorus loud 

Of mud-born songsters fills the dewy air. 

Hark ! in yon shallow pool, what melody 

Is poured from swelling throats, liquid and bubbling, 

As if the plaintive notes thrilled struggling through 

The stagnant waters and the waving reeds. 

Monotonous the melancholy strain. 

Save when the bull-frog, from some slimy depth 

Profound, sends up his deep " Poo-toob ! " " Poo- 

toob ! " 
Like a staccato note of double bass 
Marking the cadence. The unwearied crickets 
Fill up the harmony ; and the whippoorwill 



36 SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE. 

His mournful solo sings among the willows. 

The tree-toad's pleasant trilling croak proclaims 

A coming rain ; a welcome evil, sure, 

When streets are one long ash-heap, and the flowers 

Fainting or crisp in sun-baked borders stand. 

Mount Auburn's gate is closed. The latest 'bus 

Down Brattle Street goes rumbling. Laborers 

Hie home, by twos and threes ; homeliest phizzes. 

Voices high-pitched, and tongues with telltale burr-r-r-r, 

The short-stemmed pipe, diffusing odors vile, 

Garments of comic and misfitting make, 

And steps which tend to Curran's door, (a man 

Ignoble, yet quite worthy of the name 

Of Fill-pot Curran,) all proclaim the race 

Adopted by Columbia, grumblingly. 

When their step-mother country casts them off. 

Here with a creaking barrow, piled with tools 

Keen as the wit that wields them, hurries by 

A man of different stamp. His well-trained limbs 

Move with a certain grace and readiness, 

Skilful intelligence every muscle swaying. 

Rapid his tread, yet firm ; his scheming brain 

Teems with broad plans, and hopes of future wealth, 

And time and life move all too slow for him. 

Will he industrious gains and home renounce 

To grow more quickly rich in lands unblest ? 

Hear'st thou that gleeful shout ? Who opes the gate, 

The neatly painted gate, and runs before 



SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE. 37 

With noisy joy ? Now from the trellised door 
Toddles another bright-haired boy. And now 
Captive they lead the father ; strong their grasp ; 
He cannot break away. 

Dreamily quiet 
The dewy twilight of a summer eve. 
Tired mortals lounge at casement or at door, 
While deepening shadows gather round. No lamp 
Save in yon shop, whose sable minister 
His evening customers attends. Anon, 
With squeaking bucket on his arm, emerges 
The errand-boy, slow marching to the tune 
Of " Uncle Ned " or " Norma," whistled shrill. 
Hark ! heard you not against the window-pane 
The dash of horny skull in mad career. 
And a loud buzz of terror ? He '11 be in. 
This horrid beetle ; yes, — and in my hair ! 
Close all the blinds ; 't is dismal, but 't is safe. 
Listen ! Methought I heard delicious music. 
Faint and afar. Pray, is the Boat-Club out? 
Do the Pierian minstrels meet to-night ? 
Or chime the bells of Boston, or the Port ? 
Nearer now, nearer — Ah ! bloodthirsty villain, 
Is 't you ? Too late I closed the blind ! Alas ! 
List ! there 's another trump ! — There, two of 'em ! — 
Two ? A quintette at least. Mosquito chorus ! 
A — ah ! my cheek ! And oh ! again, my eyelid ! 
I gave myself a stunning cuff on the ear 



88 SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE. 

And all in vain. Flap we our handkerchief; 

Flap, flap ! (A smash.) Quick, quick, bring in a 

lamp ! 
I Ve switched a flower- vase from the shelf. Ah me ! 
Splash on my head, and then upon my feet. 
The water poured ; — I 'm drowned ! my slipper 's full ! 
My dickey — ah ! 't is cruel ! Flowers are nonsense ! 
I 'd have them amaranths all, or made of paper. 
Here, wring my neckcloth, and rub down my hair ! 

Now Mr. Brackett, punctual man, is ringing 
The curfew bell ; 't is nine o'clock already. 
'T is early bedtime, yet methinks 't were joy 
On mattress cool to stretch supine. At midnight, 
Were it winter, I were less fatigued, less sleepy. 
Sleep! I invoke thee, "comfortable bird. 
That broodest o'er the troubled waves of life. 
And hushest them to peace." All hail the man 
Who first invented bed ! O, wondrous soft 
This pillow to my weary head ! right soon 
My dizzy thoughts shall o'er the brink of sleep 
Fall into chaos and be lost. I dream. 
Now comes mine enemy, not silently. 
But with insulting and defiant warning ; 
Come, banquet, if thou wilt ; I offer thee 
My cheek, my arm. Tease me not, hovering high 
With that continuous hum ; I fain would rest. 
Come, do thy worst at once. Bite, scoundrel, bite ! 
Thou insect vulture, seize thy helpless prey ! 



SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE. 39 

No ceremony ! (I M have none with thee, 

Could 1 but find thee.) Fainter now and farther 

The tiny war-whoop ; now I hear it not. 

A cowardly assassin he ; he waits, 

Full well aware that 1 am on the alert. 

With murderous intent. Perchance he 's gone, 

Hawk-eye and nose of hound not serving him 

To find me in the dark. With a long sigh, 

I beat my pillow, close my useless eyes. 

And soon again my thoughts whirl giddily. 

Verging towards dreams. Starting, I shake my bed ; — 

Loud thumps my heart, — rises on end my hair ! 

A murder-screech, and yells of frantic fury. 

Under my very window, — a duet 

Of fiendish hatred, battle to the death, — 

'T is enough to enrage a man ! Missile I seize. 

Not caring what, and with a savage '' S cat ! " 

That scrapes my throat, let drive. I would it were 

A millstone ! Swiftly through the garden beds 

And o'er the fence on either side they fly ; 

I to my couch return, but not to sleep. 

Weary I toss, and think 't is almost dawn. 

So still the streets ; but now the latest train, 

Whistling melodiously, comes in ; the tramp 

Of feet, and hum of voices, echo far 

In the still night air. Now with joy I feel 

My eyelids droop once more. To sleep and dream 

Is bliss unspeakable ; — I 'm going off; — 



40 SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE. 

What was I thinking last ? — slowly I rise 
On downy pinions ; dreaming, I fly, I soar ; — 
Through the clouds my way I 'm winging. 
Angels to their harps are singing, 
Strains of unearthly sweetness lull me. 
And thrilling harmonies " Yelp ! Bow-wow- 
wow ! " 
" Get out ! " — " The dog has got me by the leg ! " 
" Stave him off! Will you ? See, he 's rent my pants. 
My newest plaid ! — Kick him ! " — " Yow, yow ! " — 

" This house 
I '11 never serenade again ! — A dog 
Should know musicians from suspicious chaps. 
And gentlemen from rowdies, even at night ! " 
" Beat him again ! " " No, no ! Perhaps 't is hers ! 
A lady''s pet ! Methinks the curtain moves ! 
She 's looking out ! Let 's sing once more ! Just 

once ! " 
" Not I. — I '11 sing no more to-night ! " and steps 
Limping unequally, and grumbling voice, 
Pass round the corner, and are heard no more. 



TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED 



PuRBUND and short-sighted friends ! Ym will 
listen to me, - you will sympathize with me ; for 
you know by painful experience what I mean 
when I say that we near-sighted people do not 
receive from our hawk-eyed neighbors that sym- 
pathy and consideration to which we are justly 
entitled. If we were blind, we should be abun- 
dantly pitied, but as we are only half-blind, such 
comments as these are all the consolation we 
get «Oh!«ear-si?Ated,isshe? Yes, it is very 
fashionable now-a-days for young ladies to carry 
eye-glasses, and call themselves near-s.ghted ! " 
Or "Pooh! It 's all affectation. She can see 
as well as any body, if she chooses. She thinks 
it is pretty to half shut her eyes, and cut her ac- 
quaintances." I meet my friend A ^, some 

morning, who returns my salutation with cold 



42 TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED. 

politeness, and says, " How cleverly you man- 
aged to cut me at the concert last night I " "At 
the concert ! I did not see you." " O no ! You 
could see well enough to bow to pretty Miss 

B , and her handsome cousin ; but as for 

seeing your old schoolmate, two seats behind 
her, — of course you are too near-sighted I " In 
vain I protest that I could not see her, — that 
three yards is a great distance to my eyes. 
She leaves me with an incredulous smile, and 
that most provoking phrase, " O yes ! I sup- 
pose so ! " and distrusts me ever afterwards. 
Alas! we see just enough to seal our own con- 
demnation. 

Who is free from this malady? As I look 
around in society, I see staring glassy ellipses on 
every side " in the place where eyes ought to 
grow," — and perhaps most of the unfortunate 
owls get along very comfortably with their artifi- 
cial eyes. But imagine a bashful youth, awk- 
ward and near-sighted, whose friends dissuade 
him from wearing glasses. Is there in the uni- 
verse an individual more unlucky, more blunder- 
ing, more sincerely to be pitied? 

See that little boy, who, having put on his 
father's spectacles, is enjoying for the first time a 



TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED. 43 

clear and distinct view of the evening sky. " Oh I 
is that pretty little yellow dot a star?" exclaims 
the delighted child. Poor innocent! a star had 
always been to him a dim, cloudy spot, a little 
nebula, which the magic glass has now re- 
solved ; and he can hardly believe that this bril- 
liant point is not an optical illusion. But when 
his mother assures him that the stars always ap- 
pear so to her, and he turns to look in her face, 
he says, "Why, mother! how beautiful you 
look I Please to give me some little spectacles, 
all my own ! " She could not resist this en- 
treaty, — (who could?) — and little "Squire 
Specs " does not mind the shouts of his com- 
panions or the high-sounding nicknames they 
give him, he so rejoices in what seems to him a 
new sense, a second sight. 

I was summoned, the other day, to welcome a 
family of cousins from a distant State, whom I 
had not seen for a very long time. They were 
accompanied, I was told, by a Boston lady, a 
stranger to us. I entered the room with consid- 
erable empressement, but when my eye detected 
the dim outline of a circle of bonneted figures, I 
stopped in despair in the middle of the room, 
not knowing which was which, or whom I ought 



44 TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED. 

to speak to first, and at last made an embar- 
rassed half-bow, half-courtesy, to the company in 
general. A confused murmur of greetings and 
introductions followed, and, throwing aside my 
air of stiff, ceremonious politeness, I rushed, with 
a smiling face, to the nearest lady, shook hands 
with her in the most cordial manner, and then, 
in passing, bowed formally to the next, who I 
concluded was the stranger. What then was 
my surprise and utter confusion when she caught 
me by the hand, and, drawing me towards her, 
kissed me emphatically several times. " How 
do you do, dear ? Have you quite forgotten 
me? Ah! You don't remember the times 
when you used to ride a cock-horse, on my 
knee, to Banbury Cross, to see the old lady get 
on her white horse I " What could I say ? I 
was petrified. I could not smile, I could not 
speak. My only feeling was mortification at my 
most awkward mistake. Yet I ought to have 
become accustomed to such embarrassments, for 
they are of very frequent occurrence. 

" Why, Julia ! what is the matter ? How 
strangely your eyes look I " My sister at this 
exclamation turns round, and I discover that 
from the other end of the room I have been gaz- 



TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED. 45 

ing at the unexpressive features of her "back 
hair," which is twisted in a " pug,*' or " bob," — 
which is the correct term ? — and surmounted by 
a tortoise-shell comb. 

But in the whole course of my numerous mis- 
takes and blunders, whether ludicrous, serious, or 
embarrassing, I believe I have never mistaken a 
cow for a human being, as was done by old Dr. 

E . It was many years ago, when Boston 

Common was still used as a pasture, and cows 
were daily to be met in the crooked streets of 
the city, that this gentleman, distinguished for 
the courtesy and old-school politeness of his 
manner, no less than for his extreme near-sight- 
edness, was walking at a brisk pace, one winter's 
day, and saw, just before him, a lady, as he 
thought, richly dressed in furs. As he was pass- 
ing her, he thought he perceived that her fur boa 
or tippet had escaped from her neck, and, care- 
fully lifting the end of it with one hand, he made 
a low bow, raising his hat with the other, and 
said in his blandest tone, " Madam, you are los- 
ing your tippet!" And what thanks did the 
worthy Doctor receive, do you think, for this 
truly kind and polite deed? Why, the lady 
merely turned her head, gave him a won- 



46 TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED. 

dering stare with her large eyes, and said, 
" Moo-o-o-o ! " 

As an offset to this instance of courtesy and 
good-breeding lavished on a cow, let me give 
you, as a parting bon-bouche, another cow anec- 
dote, where, as you will see, there was no gentle 
politeness wasted. 

The Rev. Dr. H was an eccentric old man, 

near-sighted of course, — all eccentric people 
are, — who lived in a small country town in this 
neighborhood. Numerous are the traditionary 
accounts of his peculiarities, — of his odd man- 
ners and customs, — W'hich I have heard; but it 
is only of one little incident that I am now 
going to speak. A favorite employment of 
this good man was the care of his garden, and 
he might be seen any pleasant afternoon in 
summer, rigged out in a hideous yellow calico 
robe, or blouse, with a dusty old black straw 
hat stuck on the back of his head, hoeing 
and digging in that beloved patch of ground* 
One day as he was thus occupied, his wife 
emerged from the house, dressed in a dark 
brown gingham, and bearing in her hand some 
^' muslins," which she began to spread upon the 
gooseberry-bushes to whiten. She was very 



TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED. 47 

busily engaged, so that she was not aware that 
her husband was approaching her with a large 
stick, until she felt a smart blow across her 
shoulders, and heard his peculiar, sharp voice 
shouting in her ears, " Go 'long! old cow! Go 
'long ! old cow I " 



FLOWERS FROM A STUDENT'S WALKS. 



As the animal dies of inanition if fed on but 
one kind of food, however congenial, yet lives if 
he has all in succession, so is it with complex man. 

Learn retrenchment from the starving oyster, 
who spends his last energies in a new pearly 
layer suited to his shrunken form. 

As animals which have no organs of special 
sense know not light or sound as we do, yet 
shrink from a hand or candle because their 
whole bodies are dimly conscious, thus we have 
a glimmering perception of infinite truths and 
existences which we cannot grasp or fully know 
because our minds have no special organs for 
them. 

The prick in the butterfly's wing will be in 
the full-grown insect a great blemish. The 
speck in thy child's nature, if fondly overlooked 



FLOWERS FROM A STUDENt's WALKS. 49 

now, will become a wide rent traversing all his 
virtues. 

As mineral poisons kill, because by their strong 
affinity they decompose the blood and form new 
stony substances, so the soul possessed by too 
strong an affinity for gold petrifies. 

Our principles are central forces, our desires 
tangential ; it requires both to describe the curve 
of life. 

The slightest inclination of a standing body 
virtually narrows its base ; the least departure 
from integrity lessens our foundation. The 
pyramid, broad-based, yet heaven-pointed, is the 
firmest figure. Most characters are inconsistent, 
unsymmetrical, and have a base \vanting extent 
in some direction. 

Be not over-curious in assigning causes or 
predicting consequences ; the same diagonal 
may be formed by various combining forces. 

Through water the musical sound is not 
transmitted, only the harsh material noise. In 
air the noise is heard very near, the musical 
sounds only are transmitted. Be thankful, poets 
and prophets, when you live in an element such 
that your uncomely features are known only to 
your own village. 
4 



50 FLOWERS FROM A STUDENT's WALKS. 

" Do not sing its fundamental note too loud 
near a delicate glass, or it will break," whispered 
my friend to me, as he saw me gazing at this 
lovely being. 

Seek the golden mean of life. Like the tem- 
perate regions, it has but few thorny plants. 

Be doubly careful of those to whom nature 
has been a niggard. The oak and the palm 
take their own forms under all circumstances; 
the fungi seem to owe theirs to outward influ- 
ences. 

It is a poor plant that crisps quickly into 
wood. It is a meagre character which runs per- 
petually into prejudices. 

As light suffers from no change of medium 
when it falls perpendicularly, so the conse- 
quences of a perfectly upright action, or cause 
of action, are strictly fortunate. But let it be 
ever so little oblique, the new medium will ex- 
aggerate its obliquity ; and the farther it departs 
from uprightness, the more frightfully it is dis- 
torted. 

Hoops and coins, which cannot preserve their 
equilibrium when in rest, keep it wheu set in 
motion. Man also in activity finds his safest 
position. 



As it takes a diamond to cut and shape a 
diamond, so there are faults so obstinate that 
they can be worn away only by life-long contact 
with similar faults in those we love. 

Learn the virtue of action. Who inquires 
whether momentum comes from mass or veloci- 
ty ? But velocity has this advantage ; it de- 
pends on ourselves. 

The grass is green after these October rains, 
because in the July drought it struck deep roots. 



MISERIES 

No. 1. 



Did you ever try to eat a peach elegantly and 
gracefully ? Of course you have. Show me a 
man who has not tried the experiment, when 
under the restraint of human surveillance, and I 
shall look upon him as a curiosity. There is no 
fruit, certainly, which has so fair and alluring an 
exterior; but few content themselves with feast- 
ing their eyes upon it. How fresh and ripe it 
looks as it lies upon the plate, with its rosy 
cheek turned temptingly upward! How cool 
and soft is the downy skin to the touch ! And 
the fragrance, so suggestive of its rich, delicious 
flavor, who can resist ? Ah, unhappy wight ! 
Bitterly you shall repent your rashness. Any 
other fruit can be eaten with comparative ease 
and politeness ; a peach was evidently intended 



MISERIES. 53 

only to be looked at, or enjoyed beneath your 
own tree, where no eye may watch and criticize 
your motions. 

I see you, in imagination, at a party, standing 
in the middle of the room, plate in hand, regard- 
ing your peach as if it were some great natural 
curiosity. A sudden jog of your elbow compels 
you to a succession of most dexterous balancings 
as your heavy peach rolls from side to side, 
knocks down your knife, and threatens to plunge 
after it when you stoop to regain, it. You look 
distractedly round for a table, but all are occu- 
pied. Even the corner of the mantel-shelf holds 
a plate, and you enviously see the owner thereof 
leaning carelessly against the chimney, and look- 
ing placidly round upon his less fortunate com- 
panions. You glance at the different groups 
to see if any one else is in your most unenvi- 
able predicament. Ah, yes! Yonder stands a 
gentleman worse off yet, for, in addition to 
your perplexities, he is talking with a young, 
laughing girl, who is watching his movements, 
with a merry twinkle in her bright eyes. He 
evidently wishes to astonish her by his dexterity, 
and disappoint her roguish expectations. He 
holds his plate firmly in his left hand, and pro- 



54 MISERIES. 

ceeds, at once, to cut his peach in halves. 
Deuce take the blunt silver knife! The tough 
skin resists its pressure. The knife and plate 
clash loudly together; the peach is bounding 
and rolling at the very feet of the young lady, 
who is in an ecstasy of laughter. Ah ! she 
herself has no small resemblance to a peach, 
fair, beautiful, and attractive without, and, I 
sadly fear, with a hard heart beneath. 

Are you yet more miserable than before ? 
Turn then to yonder sober-looking gentleman, 
who certainly seems sufficiently composed to 
perform the difficult manoeuvre. He has the 
advantage of a table to be sure ; but that is not 
every thing. He begins right, by deliberately 
removing the woolly skin. Now he lays the' 
slippery peach in his plate, and makes a plunge 
at it with his knife. A sharp, prolonged screech 
across his plate salutes the ears of all the by- 
standers, and a fine slice of juicy pulp is flung 
unceremoniously into the face of the gentleman 
opposite, who certainly does not look very grate- 
ful for the unexpected gift. 

Every one, of course, has seen the awkward 
accident. O no! That pretty, animated girl 
upon the sofa is much too pleasantly engaged, 



MISERIES. 5$ 

that is evident, to be watching her neighbors. 
Playing carelessly with her fan, and casting 
many sparkling glances upward at the two gen- 
tlemen who are vying with each other in their 
gallant attentions, she has enough to do with- 
out noticing other people. She is happily un- 
conscious of the mortification which is in store 
for her, or wilfully shuts her eyes to the peril. 
Alas ! Her hand is resting, even now, upon the 
destroyer of all her present enjoyment, the beau- 
tiful, fragrant, treacherous peach. "With a non- 
chalance really shocking to the anxious behold- 
er, she raises it, and breaks it open, talking the 
while, and scarcely bestowing a thought upon 
what she is about. Dexterously done ; but — 
O luckless maiden ! — the fruit is ripe, and rich, 
and juicy, and the running drops fall, not into 
her plate, but upon the delicate folds of her 
dress. 

The merry repartee dies away upon her lips, 
as she becomes conscious of the catastrophe. It 
is with a forced smile that she declares, "It is 
nothing; O, not of the slightest consequence ! " 
That unlucky peach ! How many blunders, how 
many pauses, how many absent-minded remarks 
it occasions! She makes the most frenzied 



56 MISERIES. 

attempts to regain her former gayety, but in 
vain. Her gloves are stained and sticky with the 
flowing juice, and she is oppressed by the con- 
viction that all her partners for the rest of the 
evening will hate her most heartily. An expres- 
sion of real vexation steals over her pretty face, 
and she gives up her plate to one of the attend- 
ant beaux, wdth not so much as a wish that he 
will return to her. Where are the arch smiles, 
the lively tones, the quick and ready responses 
now ? Her spirit is quenched. Her manner 
has become subdued, depressed, — shall I say it? 
— yes, even sulky. 

Ah I I see your courage will not brave laugh- 
ter. You steal to the table, half ashamed of 
yourself as you set down your untasted peach. 
Your sudden zeal to relieve those ladies of their 
plates serves as a very good excuse for the re- 
linquishment of your own. You have rescued 
yourself very w^ell from your dilemma this time. 
Remember my advice for the future. Never 
accept a peach in company. 



MISERIES 

No. 2. 



A DARK NIGHT. 

There are some people who seem to have 
the faculty which horses and dogs are said to 
possess, — of seeing in the dark. But I, alas! 
am blind and blundering as a beetle ; I never 
can find my way about house in the even- 
ing, without a lamp to illumine my path. 
Many smarting remembrances have I of bruised 
nose and black eyes, the consequences of at- 
tempting to run through a partition, under the 
full conviction that I have arrived at an open 
door. My most prominent feature has been 
rudely assailed, also, by doors standing ajar, un- 
expectedly, which I have embraced with both 
outstretched arms. Crickets, tables, chairs (es- 
pecially chairs with very sharp rockers), and 
other movable articles of furniture, have sta- 



58 



MISERIES. 



tioned themselves, as it would seem, with mali- 
cious intent to trip me up. Some murderous 
contusion makes me suddenly conscious of their 
presence. Then a feeling of complete bewilder- 
ment and helplessness and timidity comes over 
me. I have not the least idea in what part of 
the room I am. I am oppressed with a sense of 
chairs, scattered about in improbable places. I 
long most ardently for a lamp, or only for one 
gleam from a neighbor's window. It is no rare 
thing for me to discover, by a thrilling touch 
upon the cold glass, that I have been feeling my 
way exactly in the opposite direction from what 
I imagined. Strange how ideas of direction and 
distance are lost when the sight is powerless! 
Touch may find out mistakes, but cannot always 
prevent them. Touch may convince me that I 
have arrived at my bureau, but it is too careless 
to perceive (what the poor, straining eyes would 
have discovered at a glance) the open upper 
drawer thatsalutes my forehead as I stoop hastily 
to grasp the handles beneath. Touch is clumsy. 
It only serves to upset valuable plants, inkstands, 
solar lamps, &c., with an appalling crash, and 
then leaves me standing aghast, in utter uncer- 
tainty as to the extent of the catastrophe. In 



A DARK NIGHT. 59 

such emergencies a rush for the stairs is the first 
impulse. Ah ! but those stairs ! 

I will pass over the startling plunge which 
begins my descent, the frantic snatch for the 
banisters, and the strange, momentary doubt as 
to which foot must move first, like what a child 
may feel when learning to walk. All this only 
serves to render me so over-careful, that, when I 
actually arrive at the foot of the staircase, I can- 
not believe it, until a loud scuff, and the shock 
that follows the interruption of my expected 
descent, assure me beyond a doubt. There is 
nothing more exasperating than this, unless it 
may be the corresponding disappointment in 
running up stairs, when you raise your foot high 
in air, and bring it down with an emphatic 
stamp exactly upon a level with the other. 

But these are mere household experiences. 
Sad though they are, I esteem them as nothing 
in comparison with my adventures out of doors. 
In a dark night, and especially in a night both 
dark and stormy, I feel myself one of the most 
wretched beings in existence. Imagine a ves- 
sel lost in the wide ocean, and without a com- 
pass, and you will have some faint idea of my 
perplexity, discouragement, and loneliness at 



MISERIES. 



such a time. I have a strange propensity for 
shooting off into the gutter, or for shouldering 
the fences, under the impression that I am pur- 
suing a straight course. I go quite out of my 
way to trip over chance stones, or to pick out 
choice bits of slippery ice. I splash recklessly 
through deep puddles, stumble over unfortunate 
scrapers, walk unexpectedly into open cellars, 
and lay my length upon wet stone doorsteps. .1 
start back at visions of posts looming up in the 
darkness, and whitewashed fences and trees, all 
of which would be quite unlikely to be standing 
in the middle of the sidewalk, and which disap- 
pear at the first reasonable thought. I run into 
harmless passengers as if I would knock the 
breath of life out of them, and tangle our um- 
brellas together so fearfully that they spin round 
and round some time after their separation. O 
that umbrella of mine ! Sometimes I hook it in 
the drooping branches of trees, and, losing my 
hold in the suddenness of the shock, have the 
gratification of feeling it tip up, and go down 
over my shoulder into the mud behind me. Its 
bone tips tap and scratch at the windows as I 
go by, and scrape against the tall fences, like 
fingers trying to catch at something to hold on 



A DARK NIGHT. 



m 



by, and stop my progress. It hits a low branch, 
and its varnished handle slips through my 
woollen gloves, knocking my hat over my eyes, 
and extinguishing me for the time being. As if 
the night were not dark enough without! 

My friends, I could go on much longer with 
my complaints, but I feel that I have drawn 
upon your sympathies sufficiently for the pres- 
ent. You will be as glad to leave me at my 
own house-door, as I am to find it. 



MISERIES. 
No. 3. 



TWINE. 

Under the general head of string'^ I might 
enumerate a long list of this world's miseries. 
Shoe-strings alone comprehend an amount of 
wretchedness, which is but feebly described in 
the tragical story of Jemmy String. Bonnet- 
strings and apron-strings, dickey-strings and 
watch-guards, curtain-cord, bed-cord, and cod- 
line, each and all have furnished enough dis- 
comfort to make out a long grumbling article. 
But I cannot linger to describe their treacherous 
desertions when their services are most needed, 
their unexpected weakness, and their obstinate 
entanglements when time presses. A certain 
pudding-bag string is commemorated in one of 
the beautiful couplets of Mother Goose's Melo- 
dies. I am sure you cannot have forgotten it. 



TWINE. 63 

nor the staring spotted cat that is there repre- 
sented racing away with her booty. That la- 
mented pudding-bag string is but a type of 
strings in general. They are fleeting posses- 
sions, always hiding, always misplaced, never in 
order. You fit up a string-drawer, perhaps, with 
a fine assortment, and pride yourself upon its 
nice arrangement. Go to it a week after, and 
see if you can find one ball where you left it! 
Can you lay your hand upon a single piece that 
you want? No, indeed! Twine is considered 
common property. If any one has a use for it, 
he takes it without leave or license, without even 
inquiring who is the owner, and you may be 
sure he will never bring any of it back again. 
O the misery endured for the want of an errant 
piece of twine, when you are in a nervous hurry 
to do up a parcel, some one waiting at the door 
meanwhile ! After an immense deal of pains, 
you have it at last folded to your liking, with 
every corner squared and even, every wrinkle 
smoothed. Then, clasping tightly with one 
hand the stiff' wrapper, you search distractedly 
•with the other for a ball of twine, which you dis- 
tinctly remember tossing into the paper-drawer 
only the day before. In vain you surround 



64 MISERIES. 

yourself with newspaper and brown paper, and 
useless rubbish, tumbling your whole drawer 
into confusion. In vain you relinquish your 
nicely packed parcel, and see its contents scat- 
tered in all directions. In vain you grumble 
and scold. The ball is not forthcoming. Your 
little brother has seized it to fly his kite, or your 
sister is even now tying up her trailing morning- 
glories, or sweet peas, with the stolen booty. 
You plunge your hand exploringly into the 
drawer, and bring up a long roll wound thickly 
with twine of all kinds and colors. Your eyes 
sparkle at the prize ; but, alas I the first energetic 
pull leaves in your hand a piece ^bout four inches 
long, and a quantity of dangling ends and rough 
knots convince you that you have nothing to 
hope in that quarter. A second plunge brings 
up a handful of odds and ends, strong pieces 
clumsy and rough, coarse red quill-cord, delicate 
tw^o-colored bits far too short, cotton twine 
breaking at a touch, fine long pieces hopelessly 
tangled together, so that not even an end is visi- 
ble. The more you twitch at the loops, the more 
desperate is the snarl. Poor mortal I Your 
pride gives way before the urgency of haste. 
You send off your nice packet miserably tied to- 
gether by two kinds of twine. 



TWIxNE. Q5 

All the rest of the day you are tormented by 
a superfluity of the very thing you needed so 
much. It was impossible to get it when you 
wanted it; but now it is pertinaciously in your 
way when you do not want it. You almost 
break your neck tripping over a long, firm cord, 
which proves to be a pair of reins left hanging 
on a chair by some careless urchin. The carpet 
and furniture are strewed with long, straggling 
pieces of packthread. You find a white end 
dangling conspicuously from your waistcoat 
pocket. As you walk the streets you see twine 
flying from fences, or lying useless on the side- 
walk, black with dust and age. To crown the 
whole, a friend comes with a piece of twine ex- 
tending across two rooms, and asks you to help 
him twist and double it into a cord. It is a very 
entertaining process. You amuse yourself with 
watching one little rough place that whirls swift- 
ly round, stops with a jerk, turns hesitatingly 
one side and the other, then, yielding to a new 
impulse, flies round and round again till you are 
dizzy. You look with great complacency at the 
tightening twist, now brought almost to perfec- 
tion. You turn it carelessly in your fingers, 
scarcely noticing its convulsive starts for free- 
9 



66 MISERIES. 

dom. Ah ! your imprudent friend, without 
any warning, gives it a final pull to stretch it 
into shape. The twine slips from your grasp, 
springs away across the room, curls itself into a 
succession of snarls and twisted loops, and then 
lies motionless. Your friend looks thunder- 
struck. With a hasty apology, you step forward 
and tightly clasp the recreant end. You are in 
nervous expectation of dropping it again. Your 
fingers are benumbed at the tips with their tight 
compression, and the constant twitching. They 
give a sudden jerk. You make an involuntary 
clutch for the cord, but in vain. It is rapidly 
untwisting at the very feet of your companion, 
who looks at it in despair. Again you make an 
attempt with no success at all, the refractory 
twine eluding your utmost endeavors to hold it. 
Once more ! Your fellow-twister walks off at 
last, with a wretchedly rough affair, which he 
good humoredly says " will do very well." 



MISERIES 
No. 4. 



I BELIEVE the world has gone quite crazy on 
the subject of fresh air. In the next century- 
people will think they must sleep on the house- 
tops, I suppose, or camp out in tents in primi- 
tive style. Nothing is talked about but ventila- 
tors, and air-tubes, and chimney-draughts. One 
would suppose that fire-places were invented 
expressly for cooling and airing a room, instead 
of heating it. There was no such fuss when I 
was young; in those good old times these airy 
notions had not come into fashion. Where the 
loose window-sashes rattled at every passing 
breeze, and the wind chased the smoke down 
the wide-mouthed chimney, nobody complained 
of being stifled. There were no furnaces then 
to spread a summer heat to every corner of the 



68 MISERIES. 

house. No, indeed ! We ran shivering through 
the long, windy entries, all wrapped in shawls, 
and hugging ourselves to retain the friendly- 
warmth of the fire as long as possible. Far 
from devising ways of letting in the air, we tried 
Lard to keep it out by stuffing the cracks with 
cotton, and closely curtaining the windows and 
bed. Even then, the ice in the wash-basin, and 
the electricity which made our hair literally 
stand on end in the process of combing, and the 
gradual transformation of fingers into thumbs, 
showed but too plainly that the wintry air had 
penetrated our defences. When we crowded 
joyfully round a crackling, sparkling wood-fire, 
even while our faces glowed with the intense 
heat, cold shivers were creeping down our backs, 
and sudden draughts from an opening door set 
our teeth chattering. I often wished myself on 
a spit, to revolve slowly before the fire until 
thoroughly roasted. Not from any want of air, 
I assure you, we children were always breaking 
panes of glass on the bitterest days, and the 
glazier was never known to come under a week 
to replace them. Why people should wish to 
revive, and live through again, the miseries of 
such a frost-nipped childhood, I cannot imagine. 



FRESH ATR. 



69 



I, for one, love a snug house, even a warm house. 
I am of a chilly temperament, and subject to- 
rheumatism, horrible colds, &c. Fresh air is my 
bane. I banish all books on the subject from 
my table. I studiously avoid all notorious fresh- 
air lovers, or try in every way to bring over the 
poor, misguided mortals to my views; but it is 
of no use. Fresh air is the fashion, and is run 
to extremes, as all fashions must be. I call in a 
physician ; lo ! fresh air is recommended as a 
tonic. I give a party ; of course my windows 
are all thrown open, and foolish young girls, in 
the thinnest of white muslins, are standing in the 
draught; and such a whirlwind is raised by the 
flirting of fans, and the rush of the dancers, that 
I am blown, like a dry leaf, into a corner, where 
I stand shivering, and making rueful attempts 
to appear smiling and hospitable. I go out to 
pass a social afternoon with a friend, and am set 
down in a room just above the freezing-point, 
with a little crack opened in the window, and all 
the doors flying, to change the air. I ride in the 
omnibus, and am almost choked with my bon- 
net-strings, such a furious draught meets me in 
the face, and when, with infinite pains, I have 
secured the only tolerably warm corner, my next 



70 MISERIES. 

neighbor becomes very faint, and must have the 
window open. Even the poor babies are not 
safe from this popular insanity. You may see 
the little victims any day, taking an airing, with 
their little red noses and watery eyes peeping 
forth from under the cap and feathers. The old- 
fashioned blanket, in which the baby was done 
up head and all, like a bundle, is thrown aside. 
The child is not quite so often carried upside 
down. I suppose, under the new system, but 
w^hat difference does it make whether the poor 
thing is smothered or frozen to death ? 

I never shall forget a long journey I took once 
with a friend who was raving mad on the sub- 
ject of fresh air and cold water. Every morning 
the windows were thrown wide open, and the 
blinds flung back with an energetic bang, while 
a stiff wintry wind whirled everything about the 
room, and flapped the curtains against the ceil- 
ing. And there she stood, declaring herself ex- 
hilarated, while her nose and lips turned from 
red to blue, and the tears ran down her cheeks. 
I always took to flight. Afterwards the poor 
auto-martyr went out to walk before breakfast, 
scornfully rejecting all offers of furs and extra 
wrappings. O dear, no ! She never thought of 



FRESH AIR. 



71 



muffs, tippets, snow-boots, but as encumbrances 
fit for extreme old age and infirmity. She al- 
ways walked fast, and the more the wind blew, 
the warmer she felt, I might be assured. As 
soon as she had gone, I established myself in 
comfort by the side of a glowing grate, happy 
but for dreading her return. She can:ie in dread- 
fully fresh and breezy from the outer air, very 
energetic, very noisy, and fally bent upon stirring 
me up and making me take exercise. After 
snapping the door open and slamming it behind 
her with a clap that greatly disturbed my 
nerves, she exclaimed in a stentorian voice, " O 
dear me! I shall die in such an oven! My 
dear child, you have no idea how hot it is!" 
And the first thing I knew, up would go a win- 
dow with a crash that made the weights rattle. 
It might rain or shine ; weather made no differ- 
ence to this inveterate air-seeker. Many a time 
has she come in all dripping, and tracking the 
carpet, brushed carelessly against me with her 
wet garments, and finally enveloped me with the 
steam arising from them as they hung around 
my fire. It roused my indignation that she 
should make herself and every body else so un- 
comfortable, and then glory in the deed as if it 



72 MISERIES. 

were indubitably and indisputably praiseworthy. 
She was so good-natured, however, and so happy 
in her delusion, that I could not find it in my 
heart to remonstrate very vehemently, except 
when she would make me listen to her intermi- 
nable lectures upon the importance, the necessity^ 
of fresh air, and the effect of a snug, cosy room 
upon the blood, the heart, the lungs, the head, 
and (as I verily believe she hinted) the temper, 
I know I lost all control of mine long before she 
finished ; but whether it was the want of fresh 
air in practice, or too much of it in theory, I 
leave you to imagine. 

My friend always carried a small thermometer 
in her trunk, which she consulted a dozen times 
an hour, in order to regulate the temperature 
of the room. Alas for me if the quicksilver rose 
above 60 I I devoutly hoped she would leave it 
behind in some of our numerous stopping-places, 
and with an eye to that possibility, I must con- 
fess, I hung it in the most out-of-the-way corners 
I could find ; but it seemed to be on her mind 
continually. She never forgot it, and always 
packed it very carefully, too. I asked her two 
or three times to let me put it in my trunk, where 
I had slyly arranged a nice little place full of 



FRESH AIR. 73 

hard surfaces and sharp corners, but she always 
had plenty of room. 

I believe my zealous friend is now residing at 
the sea-shore, freezing in the cold sea-winds, and 
losing her breath every morning in the briny 
wave, under the strange illusion that she is im- 
proving her health. 



FAREWELL 



They tell me my hat is old ! 

I scarce believe it so ; 
But since I 'm uncivilly told 

The dear old thing must go, 
I bid thee farewell, old hat, 

Good hat! 
Farewell to thee, good old hat ! 

I must soon to the city hie, 

And trudge to some horrid store, 

A smart new tile to buy, 

With a heart exceedingly sore, 

For I cast off a long-tried friend, 

A close friend. 

I 'm ashamed of a trusty old friend. 



FAREAVELL. 

• 

Ah, let me remember with tears 
The day thou wast first my own, 

When I settled thee over my ears, 
Then with soap-locks overgrown. 

" Hurra for a beaver hat, 

A sleek hat ! 
* 
A cheer for a sleek beaver hat ! " 

That day is in memory green 

Among those that were all of that hue ; 
Sweet days of my youth ! Ah ! I 've seen 

But too many since that were hlue. 
How smooth was our front, my hat, 

My first hat ! 
Unbent were our brows, my first hat ! 

The first dent, — what a sorrow it was! 

Were it only my skull instead ! 
Indignant I think on the cause. 

And pommel my stupid head. 
I was new to the care of a hat, 

A tall hat, — 
Unworthy to wear a tall hat. 

The omnibus portal, low-browed, 
Had ne'er grazed my humble cap. 



75 



76 



FAREWELL. 

But it knocked off my beaver so proud, 

Which into a puddle fell slap. 
Alas for my dignified hat, 

My proud hat ! 
Woe to my lofty-crowned hat ! 

It survived, but it had a weak side. 
And so had its wearer, perchance. 

Since I left it on stairs to abide, 

At a house where I went to a dance. 

A lady ran into my hat. 

My poor hat ! 

She demolished my invalid hat ! 



INNOCENT SURPRISES. 



I AM somewhat inclined to the opinion, that, 
if positive legislation could be brought to bear 
upon this subject, making it a criminal offence 
for one person deliberately to concoct and de- 
signedly to spring a surprise upon another, soci- 
ety would derive incalculable benefit from the 
act. For the ordinary and inevitable surprises 
of every-day life are sufficiently frequent and 
startling to content even the most romantic dis- 
position ; entirely dispensing with the necessity 
of those artfully contrived, embarrassing little 
plots which one's friends occasionally set in mo- 
tion, greatly to their own diversion and the ex- 
treme discomfort of the surprised unfortunate. 
For he who has ever broken his skull on a 
treacherous sidewalk, or received from the post 
a dunning missive when he expected a love-let- 



78 



INNOCENT SURPRISES. 



ter, or arrived one minute late at the car-station, 
or taken a desperately bad bill in exchange for 
good silv-er, or been caught in a thunderstorm 
with white pantaloons and no umbrella, knows 
that the unavoidable surprises of life are in 
themselves staggerers of quite frequent occur- 
rence, and require not the aid of human inven- 
tion. But the surprises which we most dread 
are not those which naturally fall to us as part 
of the misfortune we are born to inherit; not 
those which result from unforeseen accidental 
circumstances, from carelessness on our own 
part or from the folly of others, from revolutions 
in the elements or in the affairs of nations; 
these we can bear, by using against them the 
best remedies we possess, or by viewing and en- 
during them as wisdom and philosophy teach 
us to do. No ; our only prayer, in this connec- 
tion, is that we may be saved from our friends ; 
not from their carelessness, but from their delib- 
erate schemes against our security. 

In order to r-econcile this apparent contradic- 
tion in terms, take the following instance of a 
friendly propensity. You walk into your house 
at dusky twilight, at that particular hour of even- 
ing at which your oicn brother^ if he be a reason- 



LNNOCENT SURPRISES. 79 

able being, would not expect you to recognize 
him ; one of your family extends his (or her) 
head from the parlor, and calls upon you at 
once to enter, and greet " an old friend." You 
obey, and are immediately confronted with an 
individual whose countenance wears an expres- 
sion associated with some reminiscences of your 
youth, but so dim and undefined is it, that you 
cannot, for the life of you, give it its appropriate 
name or place. What is to be done? The 
recollections of early childhood are expected 
spontaneously to burst forth from under a heap 
of later and more vivid associations, and the 
name, residence, business, and whole history of 
the unwelcome guest are called upon to suggest 
themselves within a second's time. 

After a long moment of painful hesitation, 
during which you have in vain tried to stare his 
name out of him, you clutch at a struggling idea, 
and blurt out the name of one of your former 
associates. You do this, not by any means be- 
cause common sense or conviction suggest the 
course, but simply because something must in- 
stantly be done. The result, of course, is, that 
you hit upon the wrong name; and now your 
kind friends can do no more for you ; even if 



80 INNOCENT SURPRISES. 

they rush to the rescue, and formally introduce 
the stranger, it is of no avail. The deed is 
done ; you are placed in a position of awkward 
mortification, which both the stranger and your- 
self will never forget, and never cease to regret. 

Why it is that the feeling of shame which 
follows upon such mishaps attaches itself exclu- 
sively to the innocent sufferers, rather than to 
those who are the cause of the suffering, I never 
could understand. This kind of diversion be- 
trays a want of humane consideration in the 
contriver. It is infinitely more cruel and un- 
amiable than Spanish bull-baitings, or the gladi- 
atorial shows of the ancients, inasmuch as a 
shock to the finest feelings of human nature is 
harder to bear, and longer in duration, than the 
momentary pang induced by witnessing a mere- 
ly physical suffering. 



THE OLD SAILOR. 



In my school vacations I used occasionally to 
visit an old sailor friend, a man of uncommon 
natural gifts, and that varied experience of life 
which does so much to supply the want of other 
means of education. He must have been a 
handsome man in his youth, and though time 
and hardship had done their utmost to make a 
ruin of his bold features, and had made it need- 
ful to braid his still jetty black locks together to 
cover his bald crown, his was a fine, striking 
head yet, to my boyish fancy. I loved to sit at 
his feet, and hear him tell the events of sixty 
years of toil and danger, suffering and well- 
earned joy, as he leaned with both hands upon 
his stout staff, his body swaying with the ear- 
nestness of his speech. His labors and perils 
were now ended, and in his age and infirmity he 



82 THE OLD SAILOR. 

had found a quiet haven. He had built a small 
house by the side of the home of his childhood, 
and his son, who followed his father's vocation, 
lived under the same roof. This son and two 
daughters were all that remained to him of a 
large family. 

" An easterly bank and a westerly glim are 
certain signs of a wet skin ! " said the fisherman, 
pointing to the heavy black masses of cloud that 
hung over the eastern horizon, one morning 
when I had risen at sunrise for a day's fishing. 
"'T won't do; don't go out to-day! There's 
soon such a breeze off shore, as, with the heavy 
chop, would make you sick enough ! Besides, 
the old dory won't put up with such a storm as 
is coming. No fishing, my boy, to-day." 

His old father said, " Stephen is right. There 
is a blow brewing." And he came to look, 
leaning on his cane. " Stay in to-day." 

I yielded, and the sky during the morning 
slowly assumed a dull, leaden hue. The storm 
came on in the afternoon, heavily pattering, and 
pouring, and blowing against the windows, and 
obscuring the little light of an autumn twilight. 
I wandered through the few small rooms of the 
cottage, endeavoring to amuse myself, while the 



THE OLD SAILOR. 83 

light lasted, with two funeral sermons and an 
old newspaper. Then I sat down at a window, 
and I well remember the gloomy landscape, seen 
through the rain, in the dusk : — the marsh, with 
the creek dividing it, the bare round eminence 
between the house and the beach, or rather the 
rocky cliffs, and on either side the wide, lonely 
sands, with heavy foam-capped breakers rolling 
in upon the shore, with a sound like a solemn 
dirge. At a distance on the left, half hidden by 
the walnut-trees, lay the ruins of a mill, which 
had always the air of being haunted. A high, 
rocky hill, very nearly perpendicular on the side 
next the house, was covered on the sides and 
top with junipers, pines, and other evergreens. 
As the darkness thickened, I left the lonely "best 
room " for the seat in the large chimney-corner, in 
the kitchen. The old wife tottered round, mak- 
ing preparations for the evening meal, and mut- 
tered recollections of shipwrecks which the storm 
brought to her mind. Now and then she would 
go to a window, turn back her cap-border from 
her forehead, put her face close to the glass, 
shading off the firelight with her hand, and gaze 
out into the darkness. 

" Asa did not go out either, thank the good 



84 THE OLD SAILOR. 

Father I" she said. The dog whined piteously. 
"St! St! Poor Scip! Here, shall have a 
piece! Good dog! A fearful night indeed it 
is." 

The two men came in from the barn, shook 
off the wet, and drew near the fire. 

"Just such a night, twenty-nine years ago 
come August, we ran afoul of Hatteras. You 
remember, old woman, how they frighted ye 
about me, don't ye ? " 

Amidst such reminiscences we were called to 
supper. I remember being solemnly impressed 
when that old man, bent with hardship and the 
weight of years, clasped his hands reverently, and 
in rude terms, but full of meaning, asked a bless- 
ing upon their humble board. I remember the 
flickering light from the logs burning on the 
hearth, and how it showed, upon the faces of 
those who sat there, a strong feeling of the words 
in which rose an added petition in behalf of 
those on the mighty deep. 

Supper being ended, the old man took down 
the tobacco-board, and, when he had cut enough 
to fill his pipe, handed it to his son, who, hav- 
ing done the same, restored it to its nail in 
the chimney-corner. Then they smoked, and 



THE OLD SAILOR. 85 

talked of dangers braved and overcome, of 
pirates, and shipwrecks, and escapes, till I in- 
voluntarily drew closer into my corner, and 
looked over my shoulder. Suddenly the dog 
under the table gave a whining growl. 

" I never seed the like o' that dog," exclaimed 
the fisherman, turning to me. " I thought he 
was asleep. But if ever a foot comes nigh the 
house at night, he gives notice. Depend on it, 
there 's some one coming." 

The door of the little entry opened, with a 
rush of the whistling wind, and a man stepped 
in. The dog half rose, and though he wagged 
his tail, in token that he knew the step to be 
that of a friend, he kept up a low whine. A 
young man, muffled to the eyes, and with the 
water dripping from his huge pea-jacket, opened 
the kitchen-door. 

" William Crosb}^, why, what brings you out 
in such a storm as this ? Strip off your coat, 
and draw up to the fire, can't ye ? Where are 
you bound, then, and the night as dark as a 
wolf's throat ? " 

The young fisherman made no answer, unless 
by a motion of his hand. As he turned back 
the collar from his face, we saw by the waving 



86 



THE OLD SAILOR. 



light that it was pale as death. The long wet 
locks already lay upon his cheeks, making them 
more ghastly as he struggled to speak. " O 
Stephen Lee, it 's no time to be sitting by the 
fire, when old Asa Osborn is rolling in the wa- 
ters. A man's drownded ; and who 's to get 
the body for the wife and the children — God 
pity them! — afore the ebb carries it out to 



sea 



7" 



The old man drew his hand across his fore- 
head, and rose. I looked at him as he drew up 
his tall figure, and looked the young messenger 
full in the eye. In a low, deep whisper, he said, 
" Who, William, did ye say ? You said a man 's 
drownded, — but tell me the name again." 

" Yes, Gran'sir, I did say it. Old Uncle 
Ase Flemming, he and the minister went out a 
fishing in the morning. The minister got his 
boots off in the water, and after a long time 

he 's swum ashore. But poor Uncle Ase . 

Stephen, come along. His poor wife 's gone 
down to the beach, now." 

They left the house, and I shut the door after 
them, and came back softly to my seat by the 
old man's knee. 

Once before I had seen him, when a heavy 



THE OLD SAILOR. 



87 



sorrow fell upon him. It was on a beautiful 
summer's day, and the open window let in the 
cool breeze from the sea. He was sitting by it 
in his arm-chair, looking out upon the calm 
water, buried in thought. His favorite daughter 
had long been very low, and might sink away at 
any moment. The old dog was at his feet 
asleep. The clock ticked in the corner, and the 
sun was shining upon the floor. Some friends 
sat by in silence, with sorrowful countenances. 
His little grandchild came to his side, and said, 
" Mother says, tell Grandpa Aunt Lucy 's gone 

home." 

The old man did not alter his position. For 
some time he sat in deep thought, looking out 
with unseeing gaze, and winding his thumbs, as 
before. Of five fair daughters, three had before 
died by the same disease, consumption. He 
had seen them slowly fade away, one by one, 
and had followed his children to the grave 
in the secluded burying-ground, where the 
green sod was now to be broken to receive the 

* fourth. 

Rising slowly, he walked across the room, and, 
taking the well-worn family Bible, returned with 
it to his seat; and, as he turned the leaves, he 



88 THE OLD SAILOR. 

said in a low tone to himself, " There 's only one 
left now ! " Then he sat entirely silent, with his 
eyes fixed upon the sacred page. He did not 
utter one word of lamentation, he did not shed a 
tear, but as he turned his eye on me, in passing, 
its expression went to my heart. Stealing soft- 
ly out, I left him to the silent Comforter whose 
blessing is on the mourner. 

Now the scene was changed. One was sud- 
denly taken from his side who had been a com- 
panion from boyhood to old age. They had 
played and worked in company ; together they 
had embarked on their first voyage, and their 
last; and they had settled down in close neigh- 
borhood in the evening of their days. Each had 
preserved the other's life in some moment of 
peril, but took small praise to himself for so 
simple an act of duty. Few words of fondness 
had ever passed between them. They had gone 
along the path of life, without perhaps being 
conscious of any peculiarly strong tie of friend- 
ship binding them together, till they were thus 
torn asunder. The death of a daughter, long* 
and slowly wasting away before his eyes, could 
be calmly borne. But this blow was wholly un- 
foreseen, and his chest heavily rose and fell, and 



THE OLD SAILOR. 89 

by the bright firelight I saw tears rolling over 
his weather-beaten cheeks. 

"A child will weep a bramble's smart, 
A maid to see her sparrow part, 
A stripling for a woman's heart ; 
Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen 
The hard-drawn tears of bearded men." 

The fury of the storm being abated, I resolved 
to follow Stephen down to the shore. He was 
not in sight, and I knew not what direction to 
take. It was a gloomy night, the transient 
glimpses of the moon between driving masses of 
clouds only making the scene more wild and 
appalling. I could see the tops of the tall trees 
bending under the fury of the blast, ere it came 
to sweep the beach. The heaving billows were 
covered with foam, far as the eye could reach, 
and, rising and tumbling, seemed striving with 
each other as they rolled on towards the sands. 
I had seen storms upon the ocean before, but 
never had it presented so awful and majestic an 
appearance. As the breakers struck upon the 
shore, and sent a huge mass of water upon the 
sands, their sullen roar mingled with the howl- 
ing and rushing of the wind, and filled me with 
awe. 



90 THE OLD SAILOR. 

There were torches upon the beach, and as I 
drew near, I saw the fishermen run together to 
one point. The body had just been washed 
ashore, and lay stretched upon the sands. The 
head was bare, and long locks of white hair 
streamed down upon the shoulders. The heavy 
pea-jacket was off from one arm, as if he had 
endeavored to extricate himself from it in the 
water. The sinewy arms lay powerless and free 
from tension then, but they told me that, when 
they first drew him from the surf, both hands 
were grasping a broken oar with such strength 
that they were unable to loose his hold, till sud- 
denly the muscles relaxed, and the arms fell upon 
the ground. They turned the body, and a little 
water ran from the mouth. Then, gently raising 
it upon their shoulders, they bore it home. 



LAUGHTER 



In some individuals the risibles lie so near 
the surface that you may tickle them with a 
feather. In others, they are so deeply imbedded 
in phlegm, or so protected by the crust of ill- 
humor, that a strong thrust and a keen weapon 
are required to reach them. 

A laugh is in itself a different thing in differ- 
ent individuals. Some persons laugh inwardly, 
unsocially, bitterly. It is a pure grimace on 
your part when you join in their merriment, un- 
less you are superior to the fear of ridicule. On 
the other hand, there is a laugh of so contagious 
a nature, that you are irresistibly moved to sym- 
pathy while ignorant of the exciting cause, or 
out of the sphere of its influence. You will 
laugh loud and long, and afterwards confess 



92 



LAUGHTER. 



that you had not the least gleam of a funny 
idea, all the while. 

You doubt the power of the sympathetic 
laugh ? Come with me into the nursery. Here 
is a rosy little horror, a year and a half old. Sit 
down and take him upon your knees. Hold his 
dimpled hands in yours, and look steadily into 
his roguish eyes. Repeat a nursery rhyme, no 
matter what, in a humdrum recitative; he is 
sober, and very attentive. Suddenly spring a 
mine upon him with a " Boo! " His " Hicketty- 
hick ! " follows, and his eyes begin to shine. 
Repeat the experiment. " Hicketty-hick ! " again, 
more heartily than at first, with the baby encore, 
"AdinI" The same process awakens the rap- 
turous little pearls again and again, and you are 
quite in the spirit of the thing yourself. Now 
for a more ecstatic burst. You purposely pro- 
long his suspense; he is all atilt, expecting the 
delightful surprise. You drawl out each word^ 
you drone the ditty over and over again, till 
every tiny nerve is tense with expectation. 
"Boo!" at last, and over he goes, in the com- 
plete abandon of baby glee; his cherry lips are 
wide asunder, his head hangs powerless back, 
and the " Hicketty-hicks " burst tumultuously 



LAUGHTER. 93 

from his little, beating throat. And yov^ sir; 
what are you doing? Laughing, I declare, in 
full roar, till the tears run down your cheeks. 
You catch the boy in your arms, toss him, al- 
most throttle him with kisses, and so enhance 
the merry spasms, that mamma, who has a philo- 
sophical instinct with regard to excited nerves, 
and dreads the reaction, comes to the rescue. 

Let me introduce you to another effective 
laughter. You shall not hear a sound, yet you 
cannot choose but laugh, if she does, quiet as 
she is about it. See how her shoulders shake, 
— and look at her face I Every feature is in- 
stinct with mirth; the color mounts to the roots 
of the hair ; the curls vibrate ; the eyes sparkle 
through tears ; the white teeth glisten ; the very 
nose and ears seem to take a part; like Nour- 
mahal, she "laughs all over," and while you 
wonder what the joke may be, you are laughing 
too. 

Do you feel dismal, or anxious ? You should 
hear L. tell a story. She is one of the very few 
who can undertake with impunity to talk and 
laugh at the same time. Look and listen, while 
she describes some comic occurrence. There is 
no unladylike, boisterous noise, but musical 



94 LAUGHTER. 

peals of laughter come thick and fast ; and faster 
and thicker, preternaturally fast and thick, come 
the words with them. And yet each word is 
distinct; you do not lose a syllable. And I 
should like to see the man who can resist her, if 
she chooses he should laugh, even at his- own 
expense. 

There is an odd sort of power, too, in the 
gravity with which B. tells a humorous anecdote. 
He invariably inaintains a sober face while 
every body is in an agony of laughter around 
him. Just as it begins to subside, the echo of 
his own wit comes back to him, and, as if he had 
just caught the idea, he bursts into one little 
abrupt explosion, so genuine, so full of hearti- 
ness, that it sets every body off upon a fresh 
score. 

Nothing so melts away reserve among stran- 
gers, nothing so quickly develops the affinities in 
chance society, as laughter. A person might be 
ever so polite, and even kind, and talk sentiment 
a whole day, and it would not draw me so near 
to him as the mutual enjoyment of one heartfelt 
laugh. It is a perfect bond of union ; for the 
time being, you have but one soul between 
you. 



TO STEPHEN. 



I SAW thee only once, dear boy, and it may be, per- 
chance, 
That ne'er again on earth my eyes shall meet thy 

gentle glance ; 
Years have gone by since then, and thou no longer art 

the child. 
With earnest eye, and frolic laugh, and look so clear 

and mild ; 
For thee, the smiles and tears and sports of infancy are 

gone, 
And youth's bright promise, gliding into manhood, has 

come on ; — 
And yet thine image, as a child, will ever stay with 

me. 
As bright as when, so long ago, I met and welcomed 

thee. 



96 TO STEPHEN. 

What was the charm that lay enshrined within thy 

smiling eyes ? 
What made me all thy childish, winning ways so dear- 
ly prize ? 
It was thy likeness to another, — one whose looks of 

love, 
No longer blessing earth, were met by angel eyes 

above. 
Yet thou hadst not the golden hair, the brow of radiant 

white. 
Nor the blue eyes so soft and deep, like violets dewy 

bright ; 
But the smiles that played about thy mouth, the sweet- 
ness in thine eyes. 
The dimpling cheek that said, " Within, a sunny spirit 

lies," 
The true and open brow, the bird-like voice, so free 

and clear. 
The glance that told, " I have not learned the meaning 

yet of fear," 
And more than all, the trusting heart, so lavish of its 

treasure. 
In simple faith, its earnest love bestowing without 

measure ; 
These, more than lines and colors, made a picture, 

warm and bright. 
Of one whose face no more might cheer and bless my 

earthly sight. 



TO STEPHEN. 97 

The nature, beautiful and pure, he carried to the 

skies. 
Has been trained by angel teaching, has been watched 

by seraph eyes. 
Dear boy ! through this cold world thy earth-bound feet 

have trod ; and now, 
Is the loving heart still thine ? Hast kept that true and 

open brow ? 



THE OLD CHURCH. 



There are certain old-fashioned people who 
find fault with the luxuriousness of our churches, 
and ascribe to the warmth and comfort, which 
contrast so strongly with the hardships of early- 
times, the acknowledged sleepiness of modern 
congregations. For my part, I see no necessary 
connection between discomfort and devotion. 
My soul, at least, sympathizes so much with its 
physical adjunct, that, when the latter is un- 
comfortable, the former is never quite free and 
active. 

Let me call to remembrance the church my 
childhood knew, with its capacious square pews, 
in which half the audience turned their backs 
upon the minister; the seats made to rise and 
fall, for the convenience of standing, and which 
closed every prayer with a clap of thunder ; its 



THE OLD CHURCH. 99 

many aisles, like streets and lanes; the old 
men's seats, and the queer but venerable figures 
that were seen in them, — some with black-silk 
caps to protect their bald heads from the freezing 
draughts of air from the porchless doors ; the old 
women's seats, on the opposite side; the ele- 
vated row of pews round the sides of the church, 
and the envied position of certain little children 
who had an extensive prospect through the open 
pew-top within doors, and a view of the hay- 
scales and the town-pump through the window 
besides. Those windows, in a double row, with 
the gallery between, — how regularly I counted 
the small panes, always forgetting the number, 
to make the same weary task necessary every 
Sunday ! The singing-seats, projecting from 
the central portion of the gallery, furnished me 
with another hebdomadal study, in large gilt 
letters of antique awkwardness, which so im- 
pressed themselves on my mind that I see them 
now. This was the golden legend: "BUILT, 
1770. ENLARGED, 1795." I remember hear- 
ing a wag propose to add as another remarkable 
fact, "SCOURED, 1818." 

Opposite to the singing-seats towered the 
pulpit, from which the clergyman looked down 



100 THE OLD CHURCH. 

upon US like a sparrow upon the house-top. 
He seemed in perpetual danger of being extin- 
guished by a huge sounding-board. Very ear- 
nestly I used to gaze at the slender point by 
which it hung suspended, and wished, if it must 
come down, that I might make the gilt orna- 
ment at the apex, resembling a vase turned up- 
side down, my prize. Under the pulpit was a 
closet, which some one veraciously assured me 
was the place where the tithingman imprisoned 
incautiously playful urchins. The terrors of that 
dark, mysterious cell had little effect on my con- 
duct, however, as I was not entirely convinced of 
the existence of any such lynx-eyed functionary. 
The largest church in the county, it was, how- 
ever, well filled, many of the congregation com- 
ing five and some even six miles, and remaining 
there through the noon intermission, which, on 
their account, was made as short as possible. 
But in winter the vast airy space had a peculiar 
and searching chill. No barn could be colder, 
except that the numerous footstoves made some 
little change in the air during service. The 
minister stood upon a heated slab of soap-stone. 
I used to watch this in its progress up the broad 
aisle and the pulpit stairs, under the arm of the 



THE OLD CHURCH. 101 

boy from the parsonage, and the irreverent way 
in which he made his descent, in view of the 
assembly, after depositing his burden, was thus 
rebuked by an old lady who was always droll 
and quaint. " Why, Matthew, when you come 
down the pulpit stairs of a Sunday, you throw 
up your heels like a horse coming out of a stable- 
door." 

Older grew the church, and colder; and if 
people then staid at home on Sunday after- 
noons, they had a better excuse for doing so than 
their successors can muster. The chorister, even, 
was frequently among the missing, but was 
charitably supposed to be subject to the ague. 
Efforts were made to prevail upon the elderly 
part of the parish to permit the introduction of 
stoves with long funnels. They scorned the 
enervating luxury! Their fathers had wor- 
shipped in the cold, and their sons might. But 
ah ! how degenerate were the descendants of the 
noble old Puritan church-goers I The services 
curtailed to half their proper length, yet finding 
the patience of the listeners all too short ! The 
degenerate descendants carried the day, how- 
ever, the most bigoted of their opposers becom- 
ing disabled by rheumatism. The old sexton, 



102 THE OLD CHURCH. 

resignation to inevitable evils being a lesson he 
had had much opportunity to learn, submitted 
with a good grace, though very much of opinion 
that fires in a church were an absurdity and a 
waste. The stoves were provided, and an un- 
commonly full attendance the next Sabbath 
showed the very general interest the matter had 
excited. How would it seem ? Would any one 
faint ? 

There was by no means a superabundance of 
heat ; there was something wrong, but the lack 
of warmth was a hundred-fold made up in 
smoke. No one could see across the church, 
and the minister loomed up, as if in a dense 
fog; all eyes were fountains of tears. At last 
the old sexton went with a slow and subdued 
step up to the pulpit, and, wiping his eyes, re- 
spectfully inquired, in a whisper, whether there 
was not a little too much smoke. This sugges- 
tion being very smilingly assented to, he pro- 
ceeded to extinguish the fires, and for that day 
the services were not indebted to artificial 
warmth to promote their effect. 

How sad are improvements in places to which 
our childish recollections cling! The gushing 
fulness of unchilled love is lavished even on in- 



THE OLD CHURCH. 103 

animate and senseless things, in a happy child- 
hood. How was my heart grieved when the old- 
fashioned meeting-house was converted into the 
modern temple ! Time and decay had rendered 
the tall spire unsafe, yet its fall by force and pre- 
meditated purpose seemed a sacrilege. I felt 
affronted for the huge weathercock, reclining 
sulkily against a fence, no more to point his 
beak to the east with obstinate preference. I 
mourned over the broad, old-fashioned dial, on 
which young eyes could discern the time a mile 
off. The old sexton lived to see this change, 
and at the end of half a century of care under 
that venerable roof he went to his rest. The 
beloved minister, and many, many who sat with 
trustful and devoted hearts under his teachings, 
are gone to their reward. A board from the old 
pulpit, a piece of the red-damask curtain, and 
the long wished-for gold vase, are now in my 
possession. 



"SOMETHING THAN BEAUTY DEARER." 



You ask me if her eyes are fair, 

And touched with heaven's own blue, 

And if I can her cheek compare 
To the blush-rose's hue ? 

Her clear eye sheds a constant gleam 

Of truth and purest love, 
And wit and reason from it beam. 

Like the light of the stars above. 
Good-humor, mirth, and fancy throng 

The dimples of her cheek. 
And to condemn the oppressor's wrong 

Her indignant blush doth speak. 



" SOMETHING THAN BEAUTY DEARER." 105 

You ask me if her form is light 

And graceful as the fawn ; 
You ask me if her tresses bright 

Are like the golden dawn ? 

Her step is light on an errand of love, 

Scarce doth she touch the earth, 
And in graceful kindness doth she move 

Around her father's hearth ; 
And when to bless his child he bends. 

His comfort and delight. 
The silver with her dark hair blends, 

Like a crown of holy light. 



A TALE 

FOUND IN THE REPOSITORIES OF THE ABBOTS OF THE 
MIDDLE AGES. 



Swept from his saddle by a low branch, 
Count Robert lay stunned upon the ground. 
The hunting-party swept on, the riderless steed 
galloping wildly among them. No man turned 
back; not one loved the Count better than his 
sport. 

There came to the spot a man in a wood- 
man's garb, yet of a knightly and noble aspect. 
He bent over the fallen man, and bathed his 
temples, turning back the heavy, clustering locks. 
The Count, opening his eyes, gazed on him at 
first without surprise; he thought himself at 
home, however he came there, so familiar was 
the face. 

Then did the woodman embrace him with 



A TALE. 107 

tears, crying, " My brother, O my brother ! it is I ! 
it is Richard ! " 

" Thou invEiigland I " cried the Count. « Art 
thou mad ? " And he frowned gloomily. 

" Fear not for me," replied the exile, tenderly 
raising the Count from the ground. 

A narrow path wound through the wood to a 
ruined hermitage. The outlaw here prepared a 
bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly there- 
on, and went to seek some refreshment. His 
loved brother might revive, and yet smile kindly 
on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban. 

When Richard returned, there followed him 
like a dog a horse of the North-country breed, 
shaggy, and in size not much greater than a 
stag-hound. Robert viewed him with surprise, 
and it seemed with derision. 

" Despise not him who is able to bear thee 
out of the wood," said Richard. " Thou art 
faint ; here is wine, and of no mean vintage." 

Robert drank from the earthen bottle, and his 
eye grew brighter, yet looked it not the more 
lovingly on Richard. He ate right gladly of the 
store of the landless and penniless, — dried veni- 
son and oaten bread, — and was refreshed, yet 
thanked him not. Richard gave fragments to 



108 A TALE. 

the neighing steed. He ate no nnorsel himself, 
nor tasted the wine. His heart was full to 
bursting. 

" Tell me of home, — of — of our father," he 
said, at last, with deep, strong sobs. 

" On the morrow, on the morrow," said Rob- 
ert, disposing himself for sleep. " Thou wilt 
hear soon enough." 

But Richard seized him wildly by the shoul- 
der, and bade him tell the worst. 

" Nay, then, if thou wilt know, he is dead. I, 
thy younger brother, am now thy superior." 

" For that I care not. As well thou, as I, to 
sit in my father's seat. But oh ! left he no bless- 
ing for me ? Did he not at the last believe me 
the victim of calumny ? — Alas ! No word ? 
Not one dying thought of Richard ? " 

« He died suddenly." 

Richard wept long and bitterly, and when, 
with faltering tongue, he asked tidings of his 
betrothed, his face was covered; he saw not the 
guilty flush upon his brother's brow, for that he 
had spread a lying report of the exile's death. 

" Would Bertha still brave the king's displeas- 
ure ? Was she yet true to the unfortunate ? " 

" Bertha is a very woman. She hath forgot- 



A TALE. 109 

ten the absent lover, and chosen another, and a 
better man." 

" Who, who hath supplanted me ? " cried 
Richard fiercely, and springing upon his feet. 

" I tell thee not, lest thou wreak on him thy 
spite against thy faithless fair." 

" Know that Bertha's choice, though a traitor, 
is safe from me, even were I, as I was, a man to 
meet a knight on equal terms." 

His generous heart could not dream of frater- 
nal treachery. And when his rival saw this, and 
that he suspected him not as yet, he smiled to 
himself, turned his face to the wall, and closed 
his eyes, if so be he might cut off further ques- 
tion. Soon, falling into slumber, he clenched his 
hands, and ground his teeth. The sleep of a 
traitor is ever haunted by uneasy dreams, and 
dark shadows of coming doom fell upon his 
spirit. 

Richard watched till dawn. Sometimes he 
started up to walk to and fro, beating his bosom, 
and wringing his hands in agony. Anon he 
threw himself prostrate in the stupor of despair. 
At the first carol of birds in the forest, sleep sur- 
prised his weary senses, and the peace of the in- 
nocent settled upon his features. 



110 A TALE. 

Side by side lay the brothers, alike in form, 
alike even in feature. But in heart they bore no 
mark of the resemblance of kindred. Envy of 
the elder-born early possessed the soul of Robert, 
like a base fiend ; first had it driven thence love, 
and lastly honor. 

Does no one seek for the absent lord of the 
castle, while the weary hunters return to be his 
guests? Keeps no one anxious vigil, the live- 
long night ? The unloving is not loved. But 
he hath a king beneath his roof; a king and 
lords of high degree sit at the morning board, 
and shall none but vassals be hospitably proud 
and busy ? 

Ladies of rank were there, and among them, 
pale and silent, sat Bertha, looking on the king, 
it seemed, with an upbraiding eye. An angry 
gloom sat upon his grimly compressed lips, and 
sadness was upon his brow ; for kingly power was 
naught, since remorse could not undo a wrong 
done to one who no longer lived, and vengeance 
could not reach its absent object. Richard's in- 
nocence had come to light, and Robert, albeit he 
knew it not, was now the dishonored outlaw. 

Ere the clock of the distant minster rung the 
hour of ten, the royal cavalcade wound from the 



A TALE. Ill 

gates of the castle. At the same hour Count 
Robert awoke, and saw that the sun was already 
very high. It shone upon the calm face of Rich- 
ard, tempered with quivering shadows from the 
leafy canopy above. 

"Up, brother Richard! " cried the Count ; "thou 
wast ever a sluggard." And Richard, at his bid- 
ding, filled his hunting-pouch with provisions 
for the way, and went before, leading the little 
Northern nag, which the Count bestrode. He 
bore himself bravely under the weight of a rider 
whose feet nearly grazed the turf on each side. 

Slowly they wound through the tangled wood. 
" Stay, I will lighten thy burden for thee," said 
Robert, " if thou hast not left the bottle behind. 
Here 's to the fair Bertha. What, thou wilt not 
drink? Then thou hast resigned her; — she is 
not worth a thought. Thou wilt not peril 
thy life to see her again, the false one who 
careth not for thee. Now depart, and when the 
king's wrath is overpast, I will beseech him for 
thee. Leave thy cause in a brother's hands." 
But Richard went not back, though, when they 
came to the edge of the wood, they beheld the 
king's train advancing in the broad highway. 

" Fly, Richard ; escape while thou mayest I " 



112 A TALE. 

cried Robert, yet offered he not the horse for the 
greater speed. " Found on English ground, 
thou diest a felon's death. Disgrace not thy 
family. Carest thou not for life?" he cried, 
pursuing Richard, who stinted not, nor stayed, 
at the sight of the king, but the rather hasted 
forward. 

" What is life to me ? " said Richard. " Let 
the king do with me as he will." He strode on- 
ward proudly, with folded arms, offering himself 
to the view of Edward, who as yet saw him not, 
or only as a forester. 

" Halt at least that I may spur on and implore 
for thee," said Robert, for he hoped that he 
might deliver him a prisoner to some one in at- 
tendance, that he should not come to speech of 
the king. 

With this wily purpose, he galloped forward. 
A shout arose, "The traitor! The traitor!" 
He was made prisoner by no gentle hands, and, 
at a nod from the king, found himself led away 
to the rear, but not far removed. 

He looked about for Richard. Could he not 
yet wave him back ? Should the king see that 
noble face, he must be moved to mercy, at least 
so far as to give him audience. The brothers 



A TALE. 113 

know not yet that all is reversed. Robert sees a 
man in russet clothing kneel at the king's stir- 
rup; he sees the royal hand extended to raise 
him ; he sees many press forward eager to wel- 
come the wanderer. He turns away, sick at the 
sight. 

One look more. Bertha has thrown herself 
into the arms of his hated brother. He tears his 
beard ; he curses his own natal day, and the 
stars that presided over his birth and destiny. 

Yet must he look once more, though to an 
envious soul the sight of a brother's happiness 
is like the torment of purgatorial fire. Richard 
is standing with his hand extended towards 
him. He is pleading the cause of the mean 
and cowardly enemy who betrayed him. He 
pities and forgives him ; he even loves him 
still, for is he not his brother? As the eyes of 
the king and of all the surrounding crowd are 
turned on him, burning shame subdues the war- 
ring passions that fill the heart of Robert, and a 
faint emotion of gratitude brings a tear to fall 
upon his hot cheek. Something of old, childish 
love awakes in his bosom, like dew in a dry 
land. 

The king granted Richard's prayer, the more 

8 



114 



A TALE. 



readily because his anger was smothered by con- 
tempt. The title and inheritance returned to the 
heir, who was worthy his ancient name. Robert, 
to the day of his death, lived on his brother's 
bounty, harmless, the rather that the king's de- 
cree had gone forth that in no case should he be 
Richard's successor, or inherit aught from him. 



Note. — Here ends the tale, but by patient 
research we have discovered one verse of an 
ancient ballad, supposed to have the same tradi- 
tion for its subject. It is preserved in a curious 
collection of fragmentary poetry, to be found in 
most private libraries, and, in its more ancient 
and valuable editions, in the repositories of anti- 
quaries. It stands, in the modern copy which 
we possess, as follows : — 

Eichard and Eobert were two pretty men ; 
Both laid abed till the clock struck ten. 
Up jumps Eobert, and looks ^ the sky ; 
" Oho, brother Eichard, the sun 's very high ! 
You go before, with the bottle and bag, 
And I 'U come behind, on little Jack nag." 



THE SEA 



"We sent him to school, we set him to learn a trade, we sent him far back 
into the country ; but it was of no use, he must go to sea." — The Grand- 
mother's Story. 



A CHILD was ever haunted by a thought of mystery, 

Of the dark, shoreless, desolate, heaving and moaning 
sea, 

Which round about the cold, still earth goes drifting to 
and fro, 

As a mother, holding her dead child, swayeth herself 
with woe. 

In all the jar and bustle and hurrying of trade. 

Through the hoarse, distracting din by rattling pave- 
ments made. 

There sounded ever in his ear a low and solemn 
moan. 

And his soul grew sick with listening to that deep un- 
dertone. 

He wandered from the busy streets, he wandered far 
away. 



116 THE SEA. 

To where the dim old forest stands, and in its shadows 

lay, 
And listened to the song it sang; but its murmurs 

seemed to be 
The whispered echo of the sad, sweet warbling of the 

sea. 
His soul grew sick with longing, and shadowy and 

dim 
Seemed all the beauty of the land, and all its joys, to 

him, — 
Its mountains vast, its forests old. He only longed 

to be 
Away upon the measureless, unfathomed, restless sea. 
Thither he went. The foam-capped waves yet beat 

upon the strand. 
With a low and solemn murmuring that none may un- 
derstand ; 
And he lieth drifting to and fro, amid the ocean's roar. 
With the drifting tide he loved to hear, but shall hear 

never more. 

9 

And thus we all are haunted, — there soundeth in 

our ear, 
A low and restless moaning, that we struggle not to 

hear. 
Yet still it soundeth, the faint cry of the dark deeps of 

the soul, — 



THE SEA. 117 

Dark, barren, restless, as the sea which doth for ever 

roll 
Hither and thither, bearing still some half-shaped form 

of good. 
The flickering shadow of the moon upon the " moon- 
led flood." 
And ever, 'mid all the joys and weary cares of life. 
Through the dull sleep of sluggishness, and clangor of 

the strife. 
We hear the low, deep murmuring of that Infinity 
Which stretcheth round us dim and vast, as wraps the 

earth the sea. 
And in the twilight dimness, in silence and alone. 
The soul is almost startled by the power of its solemn 

tone. 
When we view the fairest works of Nature and of Art, 
They ever fill with longings, never satisfy, the heart ; 
But, like the lines of weed and shells that stretch along 

the beach, 
And show how far the flowing tide and the high waters 

reach, 
They seem like barriers to hold back, like weedy lines, 

to show 
How far into this busy world the waves of beauty 

flow. 
Yet when sweet strains of music rise about us, float, 

and play. 



118 THE SEA. 

We almost dream these barriers of sense are broken 

away, 
And that the beauty bound before is floating round 

us, free 
As the bright, glancing waters of the ever-playing sea. 
And for a little moment, the spirit seems to stand 
With naked, wave-washed feet almost upon the strand. 
But when she stoops to reach the wave, the waters 

glide away, 
And whisper in an unknown tongue, — she hears not 

what they say. 



FASHION. 



Why is it that the introduction of a really 
graceful fashion is generally met with ridicule 
and opposition, while ugly modes are adopted 
with grave acquiescence and reverent submis- 
sion? 

" Seest thou not what a deformed thief this 
Fashion is ? " "I know that Deformed ; he goes 
up and down like a gentleman." Yes, we all 
know Deformed. When any of his family come 
to us, from England or France or any foreign 
country, we recognize the hideous brotherhood, 
and extend our welcoming hands; but Graceful 
must stay with us a long time to be greeted 
kindly, and her sisters from foreign parts are 
coldly looked upon, or dismissed at once. 

To begin at the top, — "the very head and 
front of the offending." A gentleman goes into 



120 



FASHION. 



a fashionable hatter's, and the shopman, holding 
up for admiration a hat with a crown a foot 
high, of the genuine stove-pipe form, and a brim 
an inch wide, says, " This is the newest style, 
Sir." The gentleman walks home with the ugly 
thing on his head, but no one stares or laughs. 
'Tis a new fashion, but all "take it easy." A 
year later, perhaps, the hatter shows him a thing 
with a brim a half an inch wider, but rolled up 
at the sides, and a crown of a much greater 
diameter at the top than where it joins the brim, 
— a specimen of the bell-crown. This is solemn- 
ly donned, and the wearer has the pleasure of 
knowdng that the head-gear of all his friends is 
as hideous as his ow^n. The inverted cone is 
worn with a sweet, Malvolio smile. And so 
" Deformed " has ruled the head of man for as 
many years as any of us can number, only ring- 
ing the changes, from one year to another, upon 
the three degrees of comparison of the word 
ugly. 

But a change takes place ; a light, graceful, 
low-crowned hat, with a brim wide enough for 
shelter or for shade, begins to appear as a fash- 
ion; — and how is it received ? The clergyman 
thinks it would be very unclerical for him to 



FASlIIOx\. 121 

wear it, though it may be as black, and is as 
modest, as the rest of his apparel. The young 
doctor timidly tries it on, and in his first walk 
meets the wealthy hypochondriac, his favorite 
patient, and the one who is trying to introduce 
him to practice, who seriously advises him, as a 
friend, not to wear that new-fangled thing, — if 
the poor hat had only been ugly, there would 
have been nothing bad in its new-fangled quali- 
ty, — as all his respectable patients will leave him 
if he dresses so like a fool. The young lawyer 
gets one, because he heard an old lady speak of 
" those impudent-looking hats," and he is in 
hopes that impudence, which he understands is 
all-important in his profession, and which he is 
conscious of not possessing, may come with the 
hat. A lady goes out with her son, who is just 
old enough to have gained a coat, and is looking 
for his first hat. The mother has taste and 
judgment, and the youth has yet some unper- 
verted affinity with graceful forms left, and so 
they choose and buy one of these comfortable 
and elegant chapeaux. Just before they reach 
home, they meet one of their best friends, a per- 
son whom the lady regards most kindly, and the 
young man admires and respects, and he greets 



122 FASHION. 

him with, " Why, Tom ! have you got one of 
those rowdy hats ? " And so the stiff, stove-pipe 
monstrosity keeps its place, and the only pleas- 
ant, sensible, graceful, becoming hat that the 
nineteenth century has known, is called all sorts 
of bad names, and quiet gentlemen are afraid to 
wear it. 

Has it not been the fate of the shawl, too, the 
most simple and elegant wrapper, and comforta- 
ble withal, that a man can throw around him, 
to be scouted and flouted ? 

Yes, Deformed ! Come on next winter with 
a white surtout in your hand that must fit so 
tightly that your victims can but just screw 
themselves into it, with a stiff, square collar 
touching the ears, and seven capes, one over the 
other, " small by degrees and beautifully less," 
and all respectable gentlemen will accept it, and 
virtuously frown down, as dandies or rowdies, 
those who will not sacrifice their shawls to the 
ugly idol. 



A GROWL, 



I KNOW it is generally considered decidedly 
boorish to utter complaints against the ladies. 
But I am for the present a bachelor, and in that 
capacity claim freedom of speech as my peculiar 
privilege. In virtue of my unhappy position, 
then, I proceed to utter the first of a series of 
savage growls, wishing the ladies to understand 
me as fully in earnest in this ; that when I growl 
loud^ I must be supposed to mean what I growl. 

For a month past, single gentlemen of every 
description have suffered in common with other 
fancy stocks, and have remained hopelessly be- 
low par. Those nice, trim, poetical, and polite 
young beaux, who, when no great undertaking 
agitates the female mind, are treated with kind- 
ness, and sometimes with distinction, by young 
ladies of discretion, are now, as it were, ruthless- 



124 A GROWL. 

ly thrust and bolted out of the pale of feminine 
society by an awful demon who reigns supreme, 
— the Genius of Dress-making. The other 
evening, I pulled sixteen different bell-handles, 
in a gentlemanly manner, without obtaining ad- 
mission into any house for the purpose of mak- 
ing a call; and when I succeeded in making an 
entrance at the seventeenth door by falsely rep- 
resenting myself as the agent of a dry-goods 
dealer, with a large box of patterns under my 
arm, I found the ladies in close conference with 
three dress-makers, studying a fashion-plate with 
an assiduity worthy of a better cause. A friend 
of mine, who has hitherto enjoyed the privilege 
of dining every day with six ladies, and has de- 
rived from their society great pleasure and profit, 
informed me yesterday, with a tear in each eye, 
that he had left the house for ever, the conversa- 
tion being always turned upon topics with 
which he is utterly unacquainted, and conducted 
in a language which is about as intelligible to 
him as the most abstruse Japanese or the most 
classic Law-Latin. 

If we are so fortunate as to obtain, by any 
stratagem, admission to hall or anteroom, in the 
mansions of our fair friends, our olfactories are 



A GROWL. 125 

regaled with a fragrance which we instinctively- 
associate with tailors' shops, and which, I am 
informed, does in fact arise from the contact of 
woollen substances with hot flat-irons. As we 
advance, our ears are greeted by the resounding 
clash of scissors. Entering upon the field of ac- 
tion, our eyes are dazzled by a thousand frag- 
ments of rich and brilliant hues, and our personal 
safety endangered by swiftly flying needles and 
unsuspected pins. Gossip is at an end, for the 
thread must be continually bitten off". Dancing 
is child's play, a folly of the past. The piano is 
converted into a table, or an ironing-board. No 
games can be suggested but Thread-my-needle, 
and Thimble-rig. No books are at hand but 
Harper, with the fashion-plate at the end ; the 
newspapers of the day are cut into uncouth 
shapes; and conversation (when conducted in 
English) hangs the unsuccessful Bloomer reform 
upon the gibbet of ridicule. 

Now, if we would prevent utter disunion in 
society, something like a compromise must be 
effected, and to the ladies belongs the laboring 
oar. I use a metaphor which implies that they 
must do something they are little accustomed 
to do ; they must make some concession. We 



126 A GROWL. 

have done all we could do, and I will make one 
statement which will convince the world that we 
bachelors are not obstinate without good reason. 
I confess (though it is not without some slight 
degree of shame that I own it), that I have, 
during the last week, consumed the greater part 
of every day in ineffectual study, trying to per- 
fect myself in the terminology of the science of 
Fashion. I have listened attentively, and have 
gathered into a retentive memory sundry techni- 
calities; but in vain have I submitted these 
terms of a strange dialect to the strictest ety- 
mological research. In vain have I conversed 
upon this subject with the most intelligent dry- 
goods dealers. In learning the few idiomatic 
phrases they employ, I have experienced only 
the satisfaction which young students in Greek 
literature feel, when they have, with infinite 
labor, mastered the alphabet of that rich and co- 
pious language. 

But there is hope. Experience tells us, this 
state of things cannot last for ever. A few 
weeks, and our sufferings shall be rewarded, our 
forbearance repaid. Then shall gay streamers, 
pendent from rejuvenated bonnets, float, as of 
yore, across our promenades, and on the shoul- 



A GROWL. 127 

ders of Earth's fairest daughters the variegated 
mantle be again displayed. The streets, now- 
deserted by the fair, will ere long glitter with 
the brilliant throng, and our sidewalks be swept 
once more by the gracefully flowing silk. Taper 
fingers shall condescendingly be extended to us, 
the smile of beauty beam on us, and witty speech 
banish our resentful remembrance of incompre- 
hensible jargon. 



TO JENNY LIND, 

ON HEARING HER SING THE ARIA "ON MIGHTY PENS," FROM 
"THE CREATION." 



When Haydn first conceived that air divine, 
The voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine. 
The Lark, that even now to heaven's gate springs, 
And near the sky her earth-born carol sings. 
Poured on his ear a higher, purer note, 
And heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat. 
To him, from groves Of Paradise, the Dove 
Breathed Eden's innocence and Eden's love ; 
And seraph-taught seemed the enchanting lay 
The Nightingale poured forth at close of day ; 
For yet nor sin nor sorrow had its birth. 
To touch, as now, the sweetest sounds of earth. 
Yes! as upon his inner sense was borne 
The melody of that primeval morn, 
And all his soul was music, — O, to him 
The voice of Nature w^as an angel's hymn ! 



TO JENNY LIND. 129 

But was there, then^ one human voice that brought 
Unto his outward ear his own rapt thought, 
In tones, interpreting in worthy guise 
The varied notes of Eden's melodies ? — 
O, happier we ! for unto us 't is given 
To hear, through thee, the strains he caught from 
heaven. 

December 1, 1851. 



MY HERBARIUM. 



Poor, dry, musty flowers! Who would be- 
lieve you ever danced in the wind, drank in the 
evening dews, and spread sweet fragrance on 
the air ? A touch now breaks your brittle leaves. 
Your odors are like attic herbs, or green tea, or 
mouldy books. Your forms are bent and flat- 
tened into every ugly and distorted shape. Your 
lovely colors are faded, — white changed to 
black, yellow to dirty white, gorgeous scarlet to 
brick color, purple to muddy brown. Poor 
things! Who drew you from your native 
woods and brooks, to press you flat, and dry 
your moisture up, and paste you down helpless- 
ly upon your backs, such mocking shadows of 
your former grace and beauty ? 

Ah! sorrowfully do I confess it! It was I. 
In my early years I searched the woods and 



MY HERBARIUM. 131 

meadows, scaled rocks, forded bogs, and scru- 
tinized each shady thicket, with murderous in- 
tent. I bore my drooping victims home, and 
sacrificed them relentlessly to science. With 
my own hand I turned the screw that crushed 
out all that was lovely and graceful and deli- 
cate about them. How I wearied myself over 
that flower-press! How anxiously I watched 
over the stiff stalks and shrivelled leaves,-— all 
that was left! How perseveringly I changed 
and dried the papers, jammed my fingers be- 
tween the heavy boards, and blistered my hands 
with that obstinate screw ! And how cordially 
I hated it all ! I liked the fun of gathering the 
flowers, the triumph of finding new specimens, 
and the excitement of hazardous scrambles ; but 
as for the rest it was drudgery, which I went 
through only from a stern sense of duty. Now, 
thanks to the busy little fingers that passed over 
these leaves, I have a fund of amusement laid 
•up for me; for every page has its story, and 
each mutilated flower is the centre of a beautiful 
picture. Here the ludicrous and the pathetic 
are so exquisitely blended, that I laugh with a 
regretful feeling at my heart, and sigh even when 
smiles are on my face. The first few pages are 



132 MY HERBARIUM. 

light and joyous, full of a child's warm impulses 
and ready zeal, and enlivened here and there by 
some roguish caprice. That was the time when, 
in my simplicity, I loved dandelions and butter- 
cups, and could see beauty even in the common 
white-weed of the fields. Ah! here they are, 
arranged in whimsical positions, — Clover and 
Sorrel, Violets and Blue-eyed Grass, Pepper- 
grass and Dock (O, how hard that was to 
press!), Mouse-Ear and Yarrow, Shepherd's- 
Purse, Buttercups, and full-blown Dandelion, 
Succory, and Chickweed, and Gill-run-over-the- 
ground, — with their homeliest names written 
in sprawling characters, all down hill, beneath 
them. I did not aspire to botanical names in 
those days. I thought nothing was unfit for my 
new Herbarium. Such was my zeal, that I be- 
lieve I should have filled it entirely in a few 
days, if I had not been counselled to make a 
judicious selection. I had a faculty for bringing 
home plants impossible to press, and insisting 
upon making the experiment. I slept for a 
week with my bed-post tilted up on a huge book, 
wherein reposed a water-lily, obstinately refusing 
to lie flat. All kinds of woody plants, too, were 
my delight, though they invariably came out of 



MY HERBARIUM. 133 

the press as they went in, except that the leaves 
were in every variety of unnatural position. I 
never grew weary, either, of gathering stately 
and graceful green ferns, and finding them all 
" cockled up," as the phrase went, when I got 
home. I believe I made some experiments on a 
horsechestnut blossom once ; but as it is not to 
be found in my Herbarium, I am inclined to 
think they were unsuccessful. How happy 
children are with any new possession I I 
thought there never was any thing quite equal 
to my new book. All the girls had them, with 
neat marbled covers, and white paper within, and 
each one was determined to make hers the best 
of the whole. "When pasting day came, there 
was an intense excitement. We all daubed our 
little fingers to our heart's content, and our faces 
too, as to that. I remember perfectly the sensa- 
tion of smiling, after the paste stiffened. We 
spattered our desks, and pasted the wrong side 
of the flowers, and stuck the leaves together, and 
got every thing a little one-sided, and, in short, 
became so worried and heated and vexed, that 
we did not hunt for any more flowers for a long 
time after the first pasting day. 

In the mean while my ideas had undergone a 



134 MY HERBARIUM. 

change. I had become much more ambitious. 
A new page brings flowers of a higher order, 
and, beneath them, besides the common name, 
appears a sounding botanical title ; ay, still more, 
the class and order are written in full. Poor 
things ! How many of your species must have 
been pulled to pieces by inexperienced hands, to 
ascertain the exact number of stamens, and their 
relative positions I I feel, now, a tenderness for 
the shrinking, delicate wild flowers, that makes 
me hesitate even to pick them from their shady 
retreats ; but then^ such was my ardor for inves- 
tigation, the more I loved them, and the more 
beautiful they seemed, the more eagerly I tore 
them to fragments. Let the ingenious student 
analyze bits of brass wire, and reduce to its sim- 
ple elements as much gunpowder as he pleases, 
but I raise my voice against this wanton destruc- 
tion of rare and beautiful flowers. No chemical 
process can ever restore them. 

As I glance over this new page, I see a merry 
troop of little girls, crowding around their kind 
teacher, trying to restrain their superabundant 
spirits, and restless activity, till they may give 
them free scope in the woods. Passing up the 
street, they are joined by fresh recruits, who come 



MY HERBARIUM. 135 

dancing out of the houses, with baskets, and 
trowels, and tin boxes, and delightfully mysteri- 
ous suppers packed away nicely, to be eaten in 

the most romantic place that can be found, 

provided there is no danger of snakes, or ivy. 
Where they are going I should find it impossi- 
ble to say, until I have consulted the new leaf 
just turned over. Here, side by side, are the 
wild Columbine and the cheerful little Bethle- 
hem Star. They grew, I remember, upon Pow- 
der-House Hill, so named from the massive 
granite building upon its summit, which we 
never dared to go near, for fear of an explosion. 
The hill was rough, rocky, barren, and in some 
places quite steep. In the clefts of the rocks, 
generally far above our reach, the bright red 
columbines stood in groups, drooping their 
graceful heads. Some of the rocks were worn 
to a perfect polish by the feet of daring sliders. 
It was a dangerous pastime even to the most 
experienced. A loss of balance, a slight devia- 
tion from the beaten track, a trip in a hollow, or 

a momentary entanglement in your dress, and 

you are lost ! I declined joining in the diversion 
ever after the first attempt, which was nothing 
but a headlong plunge from top to bottom. But 



136 MY HERBARIUM. 

though I heroically stood aloof while the girls 
were enjoying the sport, and making the air ring 
with their laughter, I was sure, afterwards, to 
come upon the slippery places unintentionally, 
and take a slide whether I would or not. I had, 
I remember, a most unfortunate propensity for 
climbing and scrambling, choosing the worst 
paths, and daring the others to follow my lead 
on precarious footholds. It was unfortunate, 
because I seldom came forth from these trials 
unscathed. I was always tearing my dresses in 
clambering over fences, or bumping my head in 
creeping under. Where others cleared brooks 
with a light spring, I landed in the middle. I 
was sure to pick out spongy, oozy, slippery grass 
to stand upon, in marshy land, or was yet more 
likely to slump through over shoes in black mud. 
Banks always caved in beneath my feet, unex- 
pectedly. Brambles seemed to enter into a con- 
spiracy to lay violent hands on me, and hidden 
boughs lay in wait to trip me up. Moss and 
bark scaled off the trunks of fallen trees, bearing 
me with it when I was least on my guard, or 
the trunks themselves, solid enough to all ap- 
pearance, crushed to powder beneath my un- 
wary tread. Even the stone walls deserted me. 



MY HERBARIUM. 137 

I made use of one as a bridge, one day, to reach 
a golden cowslip that grew temptingly in a 
swamp ; but a treacherous stone rolled off with 
me, and a perfect avalanche of huge rocks fol- 
lowed, splashing the muddy water all over me 
as I sat, helplessly, buoyed up by the tall grass. 
I regret to say, I forgot the cowslip. 



THE OSTRICH. 



Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never 

heard ? 
Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering 

bird ? 
Which is not a bird of heaven, nor yet a beast of earth, 
But ever roveth, homeless, — a creature of strange 

birth. 
Wings hath it, but it flies not. And yet within its 

breast 
Are strange and sleepless drivings, so that it may not 

rest ; 
Half-formed, half-conscious impulses, with its half- 
formed pinions given. 
Too strong for rest on earth, too weak to bear to 

heaven ; — 
And madly it beats its wings, but vainly, against its 

side, 



THE OSTRICH. 139 

For the light wind rusheth through them, mocking 

them in its pride. 
Then, distraught, it hurries onward, the gates of heaven 

shut, 
Flying from what it knows not, — seeking it knows not 

what. 
While in the parching desert, amid the stones and sand. 
Its stone-like eggs are lying, here and there, on every 

hand. 
It wanders on, unheeding ; and, with funereal gloom. 
Trembles in every breeze each torn, dishevelled 

plume. 
And when, with startled terror, it sees its foes around, 
It strives to rise above them, but clingeth to the ground. 
Then on it madly rusheth, with idly fluttering wings ; 
The stones in showers behind it convulsively it flings ; 
Onward, and ever onward, — the fleetest horses tire, — 
But its strength grows less and less, their tramping ever 

nigher. 
The poor distracted thing ! it feels its lonely birth ; 
It may not rise to heaven, so it cometh to the earth ; 
To the earth, as to a mother, since to the earth it 

must, — 
Its head in her bosom nestled, its eye veiled with her 

dust. 
But she will not receive it. From earth and heaven 

outcast, 
The Ostrich dies, as it lived, unfriended to the last. 



140 THE OSTRICH. 

Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye 
never heard ? 
Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering 
bird ? 

But not alone it wandereth. My spirit stirs in me. 
With a sort of half- fraternal and drawing sympathy ; 
This lonely, restless spirit, that would rise from the 

heavy ground 
To the sky of light and love that stretcheth all around. 
But, with all its restless longings, it too must earth- 
bound stay. 
And, with wings half formed for soaring, here hold its 

weary way. 
Hungering for food of heaven, feeding on dust and 

stone. 
While about it lie unheeded, as it hasteth on alone, 
Its deeds of good or evil, a fruitful mystery ; 
But it presseth on, nor recketh what their event may 

be. 
And when doubt and fear assail it, it may not rise 

above 
To the glorious, peaceful height of fear-outcasting 

love ; 
But something draws it downward, breathes of its lower 

birth, 
Prompts it to seek a refuge in the blindness of the 

earth. 



THE OSTRICH. 141 

And it hides its head in earthliness ; at least it will not 

see 
The blow it cannot ward off, and the foe it may not 

flee. 
But something softly whispers that these wings shall 

grow to soar — 
Heaven grant ! — in the cloudless depths of love for 

evermore. 
It whispers that again these blinded eyes shall see ; 
Heaven grant in their yearning gaze the long-sought 

home may be ! 
It whispers each word and act shall to fruition spring ; 
Heaven grant they may joy to man, and peace to the 

spirit bring ! 

Of the wild and wandering Ostrich, say, have ye 
never heard ? 
The type of the restless soul of man, the weary, wing- 
less bird. 



cows 



I ADMIRE COWS in their proper places. They 
are undoubtedly useful animals; some may 
think them handsome and graceful: this is, as 
yet, an unsettled question. They certainly fig- 
ure pretty extensively in all sketches of rural 
scenery, and may, therefore, be considered as 
picturesque objects; but I think that on canvas 
they take to themselves beauties which they do 
not possess in actual life. I do not object to see 
them at a distance, quietly grazing in a meadow 
by the brink of a winding stream, and all that 
sort of thing, provided the distance is very great, 
and a strong fence intervenes. For I would 
have you know, that I am a delicate young lady 
of nervous temperament and keen sensibilities, 
and have a mortal dread of cows. I am not 
used to the customs of country life, which place 



cows. 143 

this animal on a level with domestic pets, and 
when my brother asked me to pat the side of 
one of these great, coarse brutes, I screamed at 
the mere idea. For I should be extremely un- 
willing to provoke one of them, because I have 
been told that, when heated with passion, as 
these beasts often are, it sometimes happens 
that the powder-horns on top of their heads ex- 
plode, and spread ruin and desolation around. 
People here bestow a vast deal too much con- 
sideration on these unpleasant animals, for they 
are often seen — that is, those of them that are 
troubled with weak eyes — walking along the 
streets with boards over their faces, as a protec- 
tion from the rays of the sun. I don't believe 
that is the real reason of the thing, though my 
brother assures me that it is. I think, myself, 
that it is intended as a keen satire upon those 
young ladies who wear veils in the streets ; but 
I never will yield my point. I ivill wear my 
veil, so long as I have a complexion worth pro- 
tecting, and so long as there are gentlemen 
worth cutting. The Brighton Bridge Battery is 
a delightful promenade on a warm summer's 
day, it is so shady ; but it is closed, I may say, 
every Wednesday and Thursday, to accommo- 



144 cows. 

date these detestable pets of the public. It 
seems, as my brother informs me, that the drov- 
ers, from humane considerations, are in the habit 
of driving their cattle over to Brighton, (when the 
weather is pleasant,) and back again on the next 
day, in order that their health may be improved 
by the sea-air which blows up Charles River. 
Now I think that when the cow takes prece- 
dence of the lady, and usurps, to the utter exclu- 
sion of the latter, the most delightful promenade 
in Cambridge, it is time the city authorities 
should look to it; and so I told my brother. 
He considered for a moment, and then advised 
me not to bear it any longer, but to go upon 
Brighton Bridge, in spite of the cows, and assert 
my independence. I followed his advice, as I 
always do, and, on one fine afternoon, took ad- 
vantage of the pleasant weather to indulge in a 
solitary walk in that direction. As I was saun- 
tering along on the wooden sidewalk, gazing at 
the noble ships which lay moored by their gaff- 
topsails to the abutments of the bridge, and 
viewing the honest sailors as they promenaded 
up and down the string-ladders at the command 
of their captains, my fears were aroused by a 
distant commotion. I hastily turned and looked 



cows. 145 

over the railing into the street. A whole drove 
of infuriated cows, urged on by two fiendish 
boys and a savage dog, was rapidly approaching 
me from the Cambridge side. What should I 
do ? I was too much fatigued to run, and I had 
never learned to swim. My plans were hastily 
formed. Flinging my red silk visite and sky- 
blue parasolette into the water, lest the gay col- 
ors should still more enrage the wild animals, I 
jumped over the outside railing towards the 
river, and hung by one arm over the angry flood 
during a moment of speechless agony I On 
they came, with lightning speed, in a whirlwind 
of dust. A rapid succession of earthquakes — 
bellowings — groans, — and all was over. I was 
safe. On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quite 
sure that some of them must have approached 
within ten yards of me, and only two railings 
had intervened between me and their fury. 

An honest tar from one of the men-of-war 
employed in unloading coal at Willard's Wharf 
took the captain's gig, and made for my parasol 
and visite as they floated away, and returned 
them with the very unintelligible remark, that 
I 'd " better not clear the wreck next time unless 
it blew more of a breeze." 

10 



THE HOME-BEACON. 



By Elkton wood, where gurgling flood 

Impels the foamy mill, 
Where quarries loom, in solemn gloom, 

A mansion crowns the hill. 

A pharos true, light ever new 

Streams through its friendly pane, 

To guide and greet benighted feet 
Which thread the winding lane. 

Lofty and lone, that light has shone, 

Alike o'er green or snow. 
Since first a pair their nest built there, 

Two hundred years ago. 

Now, as we walk, with pleasant talk 

To cheer the dismal way. 
That light shall tell of marriage-bell, 

Of moon and merry sleigh. 



THE HOME-BEACON. 147 

The ancient home to which we come 
These scenes revealed one night ; 

As the beacon true, so old, yet new, 
Flung wide its cheery light. 

Go back threescore long years, or more : 

Old Time the latch shall lift. 
And, from his urn, once more return 

The home of love and thrift. 

A noble sire, with nerves of wire, 
Warm heart, and open hand, — 

A worthy dame, nor shrewd, nor tame, — 
Lead forth the phantom band ; 

Three girls, three boys, with fun and noise. 

Next gather round the hearth ; 
Reenter, then, dear friends, again 

All full of life and mirth. 

" My pretty nuns, 't is late ! My sons, 

Bring out the ' Sliding Car.' 
For one fair bride, you all must ride 

The snows both fast and far." 

First darts away the bridegroom gay. 
Nor waits the well-aimed jest : 



148 THE HOME-BEACON. 

To shed and stall they follow, all, 
To speed their sire's behest. 

In full array, the spacious sleigh 
Glides through the pillared gate : 

Each prancing steed, straining to lead, 
Draws no unwilling mate. 

Full moon and bright loops up the night 

Above the starry sky. 
Runner and heel, well shod with steel, 

Cut sharply as they fly. 

Along they go, o'er sparkling snow. 
Shrill bells to song oft ringing ; 

By oak and birch, to Gladstone church 
A bridal party bringing. 

On time-worn walls the moonbeam falls, 

And silvers o'er the spire. 
While diamond-pane and giddy vane 

Repeat the heavenly fire. 

From lofty tower to maiden's bower, 
And wide o'er hill and dell. 

Of earthly heaven, to mortals given, 
Sweet chimes the marriage-bell. 



THE HOME-BEACON. 149 

With open book, and solemn look, 

All robed in priestly lawn, 
The Rector stands, — but counts the sands, 

Right willing to be gone ! 

(The evening mail and nut-brown ale, 

His pipe and rocking-chair, 
Are waiting long, while the bridal throng 

Still lingers unaware.) 

An ancient gloom fills all the room. 

And dims the lamps above. 
Though wall and aisle in verdure smile. 

Through wreath and Christmas grove. 

By branching pines and graceful vines, 

Slow glides the youthful pair 
To the altar green, with brow serene. 

And kneel together there. 

Soft breathes the vow, responsive now, 

In calm but earnest tone. 
The wedding-ring, strange, mystic thing ! 

Fast binds the twain in one. 

The solemn word no longer heard. 
With chastened steps and slow. 



150 THE HOME-BEACON. 

And heart in heart, no more to part, 
To "Home, sweet Home," they go. 

Fresh now, again, o'er snowy main, 

The winged steeds return : 
On roughening rock, with shriek and shock, 

The flashing runners burn. 

O'er cradHng drift, secure though swift, — 
Now smooth, now rough, the track, — 

The furious sleigh devours the way. 
As lash and harness crack. 

Through furs and wool, the air, so cool. 

Is felt or feared no more'; 
Though gay the steeds with icy beads, 

And their flanks are frosted o'er. 

A fitful light, scarce yet in sight. 
Gleams through the opening wood : 

Ah ! now they come to their hill-side home. 
In merry, merry mood. 

Four lovely girls, a string of pearls, 

Are found in place of three : 
Four daughters fair are gathered there 

Around the Christmas-tree. 



THE HOME-BEACON. 151 

As roars the fire, their loving sire 

A warmer welcome deals ; 
And, stooping low, on one fair brow 

His heart's adoption seals. 

A dearer bliss, a mother's kiss, 

Awaits the blushing bride : 
One look above ! then smiles of love 

Express her joy and pride. 

Once more good cheer removes the tear. 

Returns the joyous smile ; 
Soon laughter, poured around the board, 

Rings through the spacious pile. 

While dance and song employ them long, 

Steals in the cold, gray dawn ! 
Back to your urn, ye phantoms, turn, 

And vanish o'er the lawn. 

Stern, though in tears, with Fatal shears. 

Time scattered all those pearls ! 
They fell, unstrung, old graves among ; 

O'er all the snow-wreath curls ! 

Yet shines that light from lattice bright, 
Wide o'er the grass, or snow ; 



152 THE HOME-BEACON. 

Still all the room its rays illume, 
As when, so long ago, 

Its arrowy star recalled the car 
Then winding round the wood, 

And lime-rock gray threw back the ray 
Across the rapid flood. 

Though cold each form, their love, still warm, 
From hearth and lattice glows : 

Hearts kind and dear yet linger here. 
And bid us to repose. 

The skies are dark ! No moonbeams mark 

Or wall, or traveller's way : 
O'er rock and wood thick storm-clouds brood, 

And doubts our steps delay. 

No beacon-light yet cheers the night : 

How gloomy grows the hour ! 
Ah ! there it shines, in lance-like lines, 

Sharp through the misty shower. 

Shine on, fair star, through storms, afar ! 

Still bless the nightly way ! 
Always the same, a vestal flame, 

Love shall maintain thy ray. 



THE FOURTH OF JULY. 



It was the anniversary of our Glorious 
Fourth. The evil genius who specially pre- 
sides over the destinies of unoffending college 
boys put it into the heads of five of us to cele- 
brate the day by an excursion by water to Na- 
hant Beach. The morning was delightful, — 
the cool summer air just freshening into a steady 
and favoring breeze, the sun tempered in his 
ferocity by an occasional cloud above us, the sea 
calm and pleasant — and all that sort of thing, 
you know— just what you want on such occa- 
sions, — and we set sail from Braman's, resolved 
to have " a jolly good time." I can't describe 
our passage down. It was altogether too full 
of fun to be written on one sheet. Suffice it to 
say, we laughed, and sang, and joked, and ate, 
and drank ('t was when we were young), and so 



154 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 

on, all the way, and in fact I felt rather disap- 
pointed at arriving so soon as we did at our 
destined port. Here new pleasures awaited us, 
in the shape of acquaintances unexpected and 
unexpecting, rides on the beach, bowling, and 
loafing in general, — much too rich to be described 
here and now. But there is an end to all sport, 
and ours came quite too soon. The shadows 
had begun to lengthen considerably before we 
thought of starting on our return, and certain 
ominous indications in the heavens above us 
warned us, that, as our passage homewards was 
not by land, further delay was unadvisable. 

Dolefully we set our sail, and made for Boston 
Harbor. We began to feel the reaction which 
always follows a season of extreme joviality, and 
our spirits were down. Our chief wit, Tom 

B , who had before kept us in a perpetual 

roar all the way, sat moody and desponding, 
and answered gruffly every question put to 
him; speaking only when spoken to, and then 
in monosyllables rarely used in polite circles. 
Our other joker, second only to Tom, the above 
named, having amused us during the whole day 
by long yarns spun out from a varied experience 
and a rich imagination, betook himself to slum- 



THE FOURTH OF JULY. 155 

ber, and tried to dream that he was safe home 
again. The rest of us performed our duties 
about the boat in gloomy silence, looking occa- 
sionally with some anxiety at the clouds gather- 
ing slowly over our heads, but keeping our 
opinions within our own breasts. I had no ap- 
prehension of danger, for nothing indicated a 
gale ; in fact, the breeze was gradually deserting 
us. All that was to be feared was a calm, 
steady rain, which, visiting us at a distance of 
several miles from home, and late at night, 
promised any thing but an agreeable conclusion 
to our day's excursion. At last it came. First, 
a heavy drop, then a few more, and then a regu- 
lar, straight, old-fashioned pour. 

Our sail hung motionless, and we seemed to 
stand still and take it. Our companions were 
soon roused from their abstraction by the very 
unpleasant circumstances, and we hastily took 
counsel together. 

" Unship the mast," says Tom, " and over with 
your oars." 

We obeyed our captain sulkily, and soon were 
moving on again. We pulled away for an hour 
or so, drenched with the rain, which seemed to 
come down faster than ever, and were about as 



156 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 

miserable and down-cast a pack of wretches as 
ever lived ; for there is nothing like a good duck- 
ing (to use the common expression) to take the 
life and spirit out of a man, not to mention the 
other discomforts that attended our situation. 

Silently we rowed, and not a sound w^as heard 
above the plashing of the rain upon the surface 
of the sea, and the regular stroke of the oars. 

" It 's very strange that we don't reach old 
Point Shirley," says Tom, who had been on the 
look out for this landmark during the last half- 
hour. 

" Very strange," said we, and pulled away as 
before. 

Thus passed another half-hour in silent, cease- 
less occupation, when, from the mere force of 
habit, I dipped my hand over the boat's gun- 
wale, with the hope of cooling my blistered palm 
in the salt water. Judge of my surprise, when I 
found my hand immersed in thick black mud, 

" By Jove, fellows," cried I, " we 're floored I " 

There was no mistaking the fact; we were 
aground. At that instant the moon burst out 
from between the drifting clouds, and, as if in 
derision, threw a streak of light over our melan- 
choly position. There we were, high and dry 



THE FOURTH OF JULY. 157 

on a bank of mud, a scooped furrow on each 
side of us attesting the frantic efforts of our 
oarsmen to get a headway, and a long wake, 
ten feet in extent, marking our distance from the 
sea behind us. Such was our position as the 
moon revealed it to us. We looked dolefully 
in one another's faces for three minutes ; then 
a grim smile gradually stole over Tom's ex- 
pressive countenance, as he slowly ejaculated, 
" Point Shirley it is I " when the ludicrous side 
of the matter seemed to occur to each of us 
simultaneously, and we indulged ourselves wdth 
a roar of laughter, — the first since we had left 
Nahant. 

Of course, nothing could be done under the 
circumstances ; but we must wait patiently for 
the rising of the tide to float us off. So we 
sat there in our wet garments until the dead 
of night, when our boat gradually lifted herself 
off and we started again, and finally arrived at 
Braman's early in the morning. 

The moral of this tale may be summed up in 
a single word, — Temperance. 



FROM THE PAPERS OF REGINALD RAT- 
CLIFFE, Esq. 



In college I was the " Illustrious Lazy." In 
my professional studies and avocations, I have 
been so hard driven, in order to make up for 
four idle years, that I am wasted almost to 
a shadow, and fears are entertained that I 
shall wholly vanish into thin air. My physi- 
cian talks gravely about my having exhausted 
my nervous energy, and sends me to Rat- 
borough, as the place of all others the most 
favorable for entne intellectual repose. I am 
living with an old aunt, Tabitha Flint, who was 
wont to rock me, and trot me, and wash my 
face, in my helpless infancy, and can hardly yet 
be convinced that I have outgrown such endear- 
ing assiduities in the twenty-five years that have 
intervened. I let her pet me, so far as I find it 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 159 

convenient, and, indeed, farther, because I feel 
grateful for the kind feelings of which I am the 
object. 

There is another personage in the household, 
who probably thinks that in the exuberant kind- 
ness of my aunt I have a full average of civility, 
without the least interest on her part. Do not 
for a moment imagine that I am piqued at her 
insulting indifference of manner towards a young 
man who (I beg you to believe) is not wholly 
without claim to a glance of approbation now 
and then from a lady's eye. You must not sup- 
pose I care at all about the matter. But as I 
have not even a book allowed me to take up 
my thoughts, my curiosity fixes itself strangely 
upon this silent, sulky, meditative little person, 
who takes about as much notice of me as of the 
figure of Father Time over the clock. 

What can such a body have to think about 
the livelong day that is so absorbing that all 
one's bright thoughts, and one's most whimsical 
sallies, pass without notice ? Should I see her 
once move a muscle of her very plain, doggedly 
inexpressive, provokingly composed phiz, I should 
jump up and cry, " Bo ! " with surprise. 

She vanishes several hours at a time, and I 



160 



EXTRACTS FROM THE 



hear her humming to herself, sometimes in one 
room, sometimes in another. I wish I knew 
how she amuses herself, for I find self-amuse- 
ment the hardest drudgery I ever tried. I could 
stamp, I am so impatient of doing nothing but 
lounge about ; I am as snappish as a chained 
cur, as cross as a caged bear. And while I 
gnaw my nails, and stretch, and yawn, I hear 
that contented, bee-like murmur, and now and 
then a light, rapid step on the stairs, or about 
rooms which I do not frequent. What can she 
find to be so busy about, the absurd little per- 
son ? how can she be so happy in this dull house 
alone ? 

There is a piano, but as silent as she is. I do 
not see her wince, though I drum upon the keys 
with most ingenious discords, and sing false on 
purpose as loud as I can bellow. I will not ask 
her if she can play ; she can have no ear at all, 
or she would box mine in self-defence. 

There is somebody, by name Flora, who is 
looked for daily by stage-coach. " Flory," says 
my aunt, " sings like a canary-bird, and plays a 
sight," — and at sight too, it seems. This Miss 
Flora will be found to possess a tongue, I hope, 
and the disposition to give it exercise. I do not 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 161 

know certainly that Miss Etty By the 

way, what is her real name? I won't conde- 
scend to ask any question about her. But 
really, I wish I knew whether it is Mehitable. 
Perhaps Henrietta. No, no, that is too pretty a 
name ; I shall call her Liltle Ugly. 

Hark I I have two or three times heard a 
very musical laugh in the direction of the 
kitchen. Heigh-ho! How can any mortal laugh 
in Ratborough I Having nothing better to do, I 
will go and see who this very merry personage 
may be. I will inquire into this gay outbreak, 
in a land of stupidity. Hark, again ! — how re- 
freshing! I must and will know what caused 
such a gush of mirth. Irish humor, perhaps, for 
Norah is laughing, after her guttural fashion, 
too. 

As I popped my head into the kitchen. Little 
Ugly was just vanishing at the opposite door. 
I could not make Norah tell me what Miss 
Etty put under her arm, as she looked over her 
shoulder at me, and darted out of sight. O my 
noisy boots ! I might as well wear a bell round 
my neck. 

Stage-wheels are rattling up the road. Now 
they run upon the grass before the door. I rush 
11 



162 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

in undignified haste to the window. Shall I — 
will I — go and help this long-expected Miss 
Flora to alight ? No, — for I see forty boxes on 
the coach-top. A very handsome girl, really! 
I will get out a blameless dickey, — if such there 
be. First impressions are important. I wish 
my hair was cut ! 

I hear my aunt coming to inform me of 
Flora's arrival. I shall be hugely surprised ! 
Humph! — will it be worth while to trouble my- 
self about the lop-eared dickey? Little Ugly 
will be amused, if I do. She can laugh, it 
seems. I had thought there was no fan in her 
mental composition. Yet I have imagined a 
glimmer or so in her eyes, when she thought I 
was not looking at them, and the shadow of a 
dimple in her cheek now and then. 

Instead of Adonizing, I will set my long locks 
on end, and don my slipshod slippers. " Yes, 
Aunt ; I hear, good lady ! I will presently ar- 
rive, to make my bow to Little Handsome.^^ 



Journal^ Sept. 2Sd. Truly, the presence of 
Miss Flora Cooper makes Willow Valley a 
new place. At least six hours are taken from 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 163 

the length of the days, though I have given up 
my afternoon slumber, and play chess and back- 
gammon instead of drumming on the table or 
piano. Now am I relieved from that tedious 
companion, my own self. I never liked him 
very well ; I had rather do any thing than have 
a sober talk with a serious personage, who al- 
ways takes me to do for not making more of 
him. He scolds me, just as a stay-at-home wife 
lectures a gay husband, who never returns to his 
better half when he finds any thing to amuse 
him abroad. Good-by, old fellow; I have found 
better company than your rememberings or 
hopings; to wit. Miss Flora Cooper, alias Little 
Handsome, alias Aunt Tabby's Canary. 

The first day or two after her arrival. Miss 
Flora pouted at me. I was exceedingly well 
amused, making all the saucy speeches I could 
think of, in the pure spirit of mischief, and tak- 
ing no notice of her tossing her pretty head, and 
turning her back upon me. Finding that her 
displeasure was not producing any particular 
effect upon the object of it, I imagine the indig- 
nant beauty begins to plot a different revenge 
on me. " Ha, ha ! Miss Flora ! It is not be- 
cause you like me better than you did, that 



164 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

you are all smiles, and grace, and sunshine. I 
shall not flatter you the more, I am deter- 
mined. I am on my guard. You shall never 
boast of me on your list of obsequious ad- 
mirers. No, no. Little Handsome! I am no 
lady's man, and never was flirted withal in my 
life. I defy your smiles, as stoutly as your 
frowns. I like your pretty face ; yes, it is ex- 
ceedingly beautiful, as far as form and coloring 
go to make up the beauty of a face. And the 
play of the features, — yes, very lively and pretty, 
only too much of it. You should not smile so 
often ; and 1 am tired of your pretty surprise, 
your playful upbraidings, and the raps of your 
fan. I want more repose of feature. Little Hand- 
some. Now, what a contrast you and sedate 
Miss Etty present! Ah, very good ! I am glad 
you have given up following Little Ugly out 
of the room the moment we rise from table. 
You sit down to your tiny basket, and demurely 
take out something that passes for work. I 
don't see you do much at it, however. I give 
you warning that I never hold skeins to be 
wound, not I. I will not read aloud ; so you 
need not offer me that 'Sonnet to Flora,' in 
manuscript, nor your pet poet in print. We 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 165 

will talk ; it is a comfort to have my wit ap- 
preciated, after wasting so much on my aunt, 
who cannot, and Miss Etty, who will not un- 
derstand. I am glad to have a chance to speak, 
and to hear a human voice in answer. I like 
especially to rattle on when any nonsense will 
do. Chat is truly agreeable when one's brains 
are not severely taxed to keep it going." 

Sept. 2\th. Charming little Canary ! I have 
spent the forenoon with her at the piano. I 
like her playing when she does not attempt my 
favorite tunes. It must be confessed she is apt 
to vary somewhat, and not for the better al- 
ways. Her singing, — Aunt Tabitha well de- 
scribes it as that of a canary ; sweet and liquid, 
and clear, and sustained, but all alike. Her 
throat is a fine instrument ; I shall teach her 
to use it with more expression and feeling. We 
will have another lesson to-morrow. 

I thought, though, there was a shadow over 
her face when I called it practising. Etty's eyes 
met mine at the moment, a rare occurrence. 
What was her thought ? One cannot read in 
her immovable face. 

Evening. I am booked for a horseback ride 
with Little Handsome to-morrow morning. How 



166 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

did she make me offer ? I did not mean to. 
All country girls ride, I believe. I often see Miss 
Etty cantering through the shady lanes all by 
herself. I saw the bars down, at the end of the 
track through the wood, one day. I immedi- 
ately concluded that Little Ugly had paced off 
that way, that I need not see her from my win- 
dow. I put the bars up again, and lay in wait 
behind the bushes. Soon I heard her approach- 
ing. I come forward as she comes near, on that 
rat-like pony of hers, who holds his head down 
as if searching for something lost in the road. 
I stand in doubt whether to laugh at her pre- 
dicament, or advance in a gentlemanly manner 
to remove the obstacle I had put in her way. 
When lo! the absurd little nag clears it at a 
bound, and skims away over the green track 
like a swallow, till he vanishes under the leafy 
arch. I am left in a very foolish attitude, with 
mouth and eyes wide open. 

Now this independent young lady shall be at 
liberty to take care of herself, with no officious 
interference of mine ; I will not invite her to 
join us to-morrow morning, as I intended. I 
wonder if any horses are to be procured that 
are not rats. I hope Miss Flora knows enough 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 167 

to mount her pony, for I am sure I do not know- 
how* to help her. Whew! I hope we shall meet 
with no disasters! I feel certain Little Hand- 
some would 'scream like a sea-gull, pull the 
wrong rein, tangle her foot in the stirrup or 
riding-skirt, faint, fall, break her neck — O hor- 
rors ! Will not the dear old Aunt Tabitha for- 
bid her going? 

What a well-proportioned and ladylike figure 
it was, now I think of it ! How gracefully she 
sat upon her flying Dobbin ! 

Sept. 25th, Rainy. Glad of it. Breakfast 
late. Miss Etty did not appear, having been up 
some hours, I imagine. What for, I wonder ? 
What can she be about? One thing pleases 
me in her. If Aunt Tabitha wants any little 
attention, a needle threaded, or a dropped stitch 
taken up. Miss Etty quietly comes to her aid. 
It is so entirely a matter of course, the old 
lady only smiles, but any service from Flora 
calls forth an acknowledgment; it being a par- 
ticular effort of good nature, and generally the 
fruit of a direct appeal. Miss Etty talks more 
than she did, too. While I am talking non. 
sense wdth Little Handsome, I hear her amusinf^ 
my good aunty, and I catch a few words, her 



168 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

utterance having a peculiar distinctness, and the 
lowest tones being fine and clear, like those of a 
good singer on a pianissimo strain. It is a pe- 
culiarly ladylike articulation ; was she born and 
bred in Ratborough, I wonder ? She never 
speaks while we are singing. Does she like 
music, then? I asked her once, but what sort 
of answer is " Yes ! " to such a question ? And 
that is all I elicited. 

Miflsic again, the forenoon occupation. Miss 
Flora does not like being criticized, I find. One 
must not presume to set her right in the small- 
est particular. Singers are proverbially irritable ! 
I am not certain / could belong to a glee-club, 
and never get cross or unreasonable. I hate to 
be corrected ; but I hate more to be incorrect. 
I could give Canary a hint or two now and 
then that would be serviceable, if she would 
permit it. I have no right, however, to take it 
upon me to instruct her, and it puts her in a 
pet. She laughed it off, but I saw the mount- 
ing color and the flashing glance. I am an 
impudent fellow, I suppose. Honest, to boot. 
I think she need not take offence at w^hat was 
intended as a friendly help. I am no flatterer, 
at least. Really, I am hurt that I might not 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 169 

take so trifling a liberty in behalf of my favor- 
ite song. I '11 walk off as often as she sings it. 
Can her temper be perfectly good? And yet, 
one could not expect — I ought not to be sur- 
prised. Yet I can't help thinking, suppose — 
just suppose I had a right to find fault, — sup- 
pose I were a near friend, — would she bear it 
then ? Supposing she were my companion for 
life — Humph ! that startles one, — was I near 
thinking of it in earnest ? She is beauti- 
ful ; I should be proud of her abroad. But at 
home, — at home, where there should be confi- 
dence, would there not be constraint? Must 
no improvement ever be suggested, because it 
implies imperfection ? I hope none of my 
friends will ever be on such terms with me ; if 
I am touchy like a nettle, may they grasp me 
hard, and fear me not. 

Sept. 26th. This little sheet of water in front 
of the house has the greatest variety of aspects ; 
its face is like a human face, full of varying 
expressions. A slight haze made it so beautiful 
just before sunset, I took my chai^, and put it 
out of the window upon the grass, then fol- 
lowed it, and sat with it tipped back against the 
house, close by the window of one of those 



170 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

mysterious rooms where Miss Etty immures 
herself. I heard the Canary say in a scolding 
tone, " I should think you might oblige me ; it 
is such a trifle to do, it is not worth refusing. 
Why should you care for him ! " 

No answer, though I confess my ears were 
erected to the sharpest attitude of listening. I 
was wholly oblivious of myself^ or I should 
have taken myself away, as in honor bound. 

" Won't you now, Etty ? I '11 only ask for 
one of our old duets, just one." 

" No, Flora," said Little Ugly, coldly enough. 

" Why not ? " No answer. 

" To be sure, he might hear. He would find 
out that you are musical. What of that? 
Where is the use of being able to sing, to sing 
only when there 's nobody to listen ? " 

" I sing only to friends. I cannot sing, I have 
never sung, to persons in whom I have no con- 
fidence." 

« Afraid ! What a little goose ! " 

" Not afraid, exactly." 

" I don't comprehend, I am sure." 

" I do not expect you should." 

" I never did understand you." 
" You never will." Silence again. 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. *17I 

Flora tuned up, and, of all tunes, she must 
needs hum my song. I was on my feet in a 
moment to depart, when I heard the clear tones 
of Etty's voice again, and stood still, with one 
foot advanced. 

" Flora, you should sharp that third note in 
the last line." 

Flora murdered it again, with the most atro- 
cious, cold-blooded cruelty. I almost mocked 
the sound aloud in my passion. 

" I do not tell you to vex you, only I saw that 
Mr. Ratcliffe " 

" You need not trouble yourself about his 
opinion." 

" I knew you would not like it, if I told you 
of a mistake. But I supposed you would rectify 
it, and I should have done you a kindness, even 
against your will." 

" And I to hate you for it, eh ? " 

" If you can." 

*' Indeed I cannot, Etty, for you are my very 
best friend. But you are a horrid, truth-telling, 
formidable body. Why not let me sing on, my 
own way ? I don't thank you a bit. I had 
rather sing it wrong, than be corrected. It hurts 
my pride. I think people should take my music 



172* EXTRACTS FROM THE 

as they find it. If it does not please them, they 
are not obliged to ask me to sing. One note 
wrong can sm-ely be put up with, if the rest is 
worth hearing. I shall continue to sing it as I 
have done, I think." 

« No, -- please don't I " 

" If I will mend it when I think of it, will 
you sing a duet? " 

" Yes, though it will cost me more than you 
know." 

" Poh I " And Flora sang the song, without 
accompaniment. The desired sharp rung upon 
my ears, and set my nerves at rest. 

" Bravo ! Encore ! " I cried, beneath the win- 
dow, and was pelted with peach-stones. 

I wonder when this duet is to come off. 

Sept. 21th. Have not stirred from the house. 
But I have not heard any voice but Flora's. 
She has been uncommonly amiable and fasci- 
nating, and I — am I not rather bewitched? I 
cannot keep my resolution of not being flirted 
with. I cannot be wise, and reserved, and in- 
different. Am I trifling? Or am I in earnest ? 
Indeed I don't know. I only know I am con- 
stantly at the side of Little Handsome, with- 
out knowing how I came there. She makes 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 173 

me sing with her, ride with her, walk with her, 
at her will, and as if that was not enough for 
one day, to test her power over me, to-night 
she made me dance with her. And now I feel 
like a fool as I think of Etty playing a waltz 
for us, at Flora's request, and giving me a long, 
serious look as I approached the piano to com- 
pliment her playing. I could not utter a word. 
I answered her gaze with one as sober, and 
more sad, and came away to my room, to have 
some talk with my real self. Now for it. 

Says I to Myself, « A truce to your upbraid- 

ings, you old scold; tell me at once how you 

find yourself affected towards this charming 

little Flora." 

Says Myself, " There are no tastes in common 

between her and me." 

Says I, quickly, « Music I " and triumphed a 

moment or two. 

But the snarling old fellow asked whether I 

liked her singing, or her flattery? For his part, 

he thought we both liked to hear our own voices, 

and agreed in nothing else. Taste, indeed! 

when I would not let her sing a song I cared a 

fillip for. 

In short, my self-communion ended in some 



174 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

very sage resolutions. I feared the beautiful 
head with the shining curls was somewhat 
vacant. And the heart, — was that empty like- 
wise? Or was that hidden cell the home of 
all the loveliest affections, the firmest and pur- 
est faith and motive, every thing that should be 

there to rule the life — and my picture on 

the wall ? A question this. — Does she love me ? 
" O yes!" answered vanity. " O no I" said good 
sense, " not at all. If your picture is in her 
heart, it is one of a whole gallery. Don't be a 
fop. It is not your character. Don't let Flora 
make a fool of you." 

And I resolved 

Sept. 27th. A very dull day. " You are as 
sober as a judge," said Flora at breakfast. I 
caught Etty's eye, — but it said nothing. Aunt 
Tabitha, who yesterday evidently thought me 
in desperate case, and once inquired about my 
income very significantly, now suspected a quar- 
rel between Flora and me. I was embarrassed, 
and overturned the cream. " No great loss," 
said Etty, seeing that I was chagrined. " As 
easy made up as a lovers' quarrel," said Aunt 
Tabitha. Silly old woman! No, silly young 
fellow I Flora has revenged herself on me as 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 175 

she meant to do, for defying her power. She 
has turned my head ; made me act like a sim- 
pleton. But " Richard 's himself again," and 
wiser than he was. 

P. M. I endeavored to talk more with Miss 
Etty, that the change in my manner might be 
less observed. It was all natural that I should 
be as grave as a judge when I addressed my- 
self to so quiet a member of society. She 
seemed to divine my object, and sustained the 
dialogue ; I never knew her to do it before. It 
is not diffidence, it seems, that has been the 
cause of this reserve ; I was the more diffident 
of the two, failing to express my thoughts we]], 
from a hurry and uncertainty of mind which I 
am not often troubled withal. It was partly 
astonishment, in truth, that confused me. Lit- 
tle Ugly and I actually exchanging ideas! I 
shall call her Little Ugly still, however, for I could 
not make her look at me as she spoke, nor an- 
swer my wit by a change of countenance. 

Sept. 2Sth. Little Handsome cannot be con- 
vinced that the ffirtation is over, — absolutely 
at an end. She alternately rails at my capri- 
cious solemnity, and pretends to be grieved at 
it. I can see that nothing but my avoidance of 



176 



EXTRACTS FROM THE 



a Ute-a-tete is my safety. Should the sentimen- 
tal tone prevail, and tears come into those beau- 
tiful eyes, I am a gone man. At my earnest re- 
quest, (I have grown h amble or bold enough to 
ask a favor,) Miss Etty has brought, or rather 
dragged, her work-basket into the parlor. A great 
basket it is, so great, that I imagine in her own 
apartment she gets into the middle of it bodily. 
I sat down to watch the motions of her adroit 
little digits in darning stockings, and mending 
homely garments. I imagined, rather than saw, 
a humorous gleam in her eye, as I did so, and 
there was certainly a slight contraction of her 
mouth in length, as if to counteract an inclina- 
tion of the muscles to move in the opposite 
direction. 

Flora fluttered about the room like a bright- 
hued butterfly, pausing a moment at a window 
or a bookcase, or resting awhile to play a few 
capricious notes on the piano, and sometimes 
coming to view Miss Etty's employment, as if 
it were a branch of industry she was unac- 
quainted with, and curious about. 

The maples are turning red already. The 
setting sun threw a glorious light through their 
tinted foliage, and the still bosom of the lake 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 177 

reflected it in a softened, changeable hue of 
mingled crimson and silver. Flora was stand- 
ing at the door. I somehow found myself there 
also ; but I talked over my shoulder to Aunt 
Tabitha about potatoes. 

" I have a fancy for a walk round the pond,'* 
said Flora. After a pause, she looked at me, 
as much as to say, " Don't you see, you mon- 
ster, it is too late for me to go alone ? " 

" Miss Flora, I will second your wish, if you 
can drum up a third party," said I, point-blank. 

Flora blushed, and pouted for a moment, then 
beckoned to Little Ugly, who disobligingly sug- 
gested that the grass would be wet. It so hap- 
pened there was no dew, and Flora convinced 
her of the fact by running in the grass, and 
then presenting the sole of her shoe for her in- 
spection. Miss Etty, her ill-chosen objection be- 
ing vanquished, went for her bonnet, and we set 
forth, Miss Flora's arm in mine as a matter of 
course, and Miss Etty's in hers, save where the 
exigencies of the woodland path gave her an 
excuse to drop behind. A little boat tied to a 
stump, suggested to Flora a new whim. In- 
stead of going round the pond, which I now 
began to like doing, I must w^eary myself with 

12 



178 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

rowing her across. I was ready enough to do 
it, however, had not Miss Etty quietly observed 
that the pond was nnuddy, and the boat unsea- 
worthy. Flora would not have yielded to twen- 
ty feet of water, — but mud! She sighed, and 
resumed my arm. I, offering the other to Miss 
Etty in so determined a way, that she could not 
waive accepting it, marched forward with spirits 
rising into high glee and loquacity. Presently, 
feeling a sudden irritation at the feather-like 
lightness with which Little Ugly's fingers just 
touched my elbow, as if she disdained any sup- 
port from me, I caught her hand and drew it 
through my arm, and when I relinquished it, 
pressed her arm to my side with mine, thinking 
she would snatch it away, and walk alone in 
offended dignity. Whether she was too really 
dignified for that, or took my rebuke as it was 
intended, I know not, but she leaned on my 
arm with somewhat greater confidence during 
the remainder of our walk, and now and then 
even volunteered a remark. Before we finished 
the circumambulation of the pond, she had quite 
forgotten her sulky reserve, and talked with 
much earnestness and animation, Flora sub- 
siding into a listener, with a willing interest 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 179 

which raised her in my estimation consid- 
erably. 

And now that I am alone in my room, and 
journalizing, it behooves me to gather up and 
record some of those words, precious from their 
rarity. Flora and I, in our merry nonsense, 
had a mock dispute, and referred the matter to 
Miss Etty for arbitration. 

" Etty, mind you side with me," said Flora. 

"Be an impartial umpire. Miss Etty," said I, 
" and you will be on my side." 

Little Ugly was obliged to confess that she 
had not heard a word of the matter, her thoughts 
being elsewhere, intently engaged. 

" I must request you to excuse my inatten- 
tion," she said, '-and to repeat what you were 
saying." 

" The latter request I scorn to grant," said I, 
" and the former we will consider about when 
we have heard what thoughts have been pre- 
ferred to our most edifying conversation." 

" You sliall tell us," said Flora. " Yes, or we 
will go off and leave you to your meditations, 
here in the dark woods, with the owls and the 
tree-toads, whom you probably prefer for com- 
pany." 



180 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

Miss Etty condescended to confess she should 
be frightened without my manful protection. — 
Quite a triumph ! 

" I must thank you," she said, " for the nov- 
elty of an evening walk in the woods. I enjoy 
it, I confess, very highly. Look at those dark, 
mysterious vistas, and those deepening shadows 
blending the bank with its mirror; how differ- 
ent from the trite daylight truth ! It took strong 
hold of my imagination." 

" Go on. And so you were thinking " 

" I was hardly doing so much as thinking. I 
was seeing it to remember." 

" Etty draws like an artist," said Flora, in a 
whisper. 

" I was taking a mental daguerreotype of my 
companions, by twilight, and of all the scene 
round, too, in the same grey tint, just to look at 
some ten or fifteen years hence, when " 

" Let us all three agree," said I, " on the 28th 
of September, 18 — , to remember this evening. 
I am certain I shall look back to it with pleas- 
ure." 

" O horrid I " shrieked Flora ; " how can you 
talk so ! By that time you will be a shocking, 
middle-aged sort of person ! I always wonder 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 181 

how people can be resigned to live, when they 
have lost youth, and with it all that makes life 
bearable ! Fifteen years ! Dismal thought ! I 
shall liave outlived every thing I care about in 
life!" So moaned Little Handsome. 

" But you may have found new sources of in- 
terest," suggested I, perhaps a little too tenderly, 
for I had some sympathy with her dread of that 
particular phase of existence, middle-agedness. 
" Perhaps as the mistress of a household " 

" Worse and worse ! " screamed Flora. " A 
miserable comforter you are ! As if it were not 
enough merely to grow old, but one must be a 
slave and a martyr, never doing any thing one 
would prefer to do, nor going anywhere that one 
wants to go, — bound for ever to one spot, and 
one perpetual companion " 

" Planning dinners every day for cooks hardly 
less ignorant than yourself," added I, laughing 
at her. selfish horror of matronly bondage, yet 
provoked at it. " Miss Etty, would you^ if you 
could, stand still instead of going forward? " 

" My happiness is altogether different from 
Flora's," she replied, " though we were brought 
up side by side. What has taught me to be 
independent of the world and its notice was 



182 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

my being continually compared with her, and 
assured, with compassionate regret, that I had 
none of those qualifications which could give 
me success in general society." 

" Which was a libel " I began. 

" Without the last syllable," said Flora, catch- 
ing up the word. 

" At any rate, I knew I was plain and shy, 
and made friends slowly. So I chose such 
pleasures as should be under my own control, 
and could never fail me. They make my life 
so much happier and more precious than it was 
ten years ago, that I feel certain I shall have a 
wider and fuller enjoyment of the same ten 
years hence." 

What they are, I partly guess, and partly 
drew from her, in her uncommonly frank mood. 
I begin to perceive that I, as well as Flora, have 
been cherishing most mistaken and unsatisfac- 
tory aims. My surly old inner self has often 
hinted as much, but I would not hear him. 
Etty may have her mistaken views too, but she 
has set me thinking. 

Well, you crusty old curmudgeon, what has 
been my course since the awe of the schoolmaster 
ceased to be a sort of external conscience ? 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 183 

" You told me study was none of my busi- 
ness," says Conscience, " and a pretty piece of 
work you have made of it without me. Idle in 
college, and, when you began to perceive the 
connection between study and what people call 
success in life, overworking yourself, here you 
are, and just beginning to bethink yourself that 
I might have furnished just the right degree of 
stimulus, if you had but allowed it." 

Hark! hark! It is the duet! That silvery 
second is Etty's. I will steal down stairs, and 
when they have ended, pop in, and it shall go 
hard but I will have another song. 

Parlor dark and empty. I fancied I heard 
Flora giggling somewhere, but I might be mis- 
taken. Yet the voices sounded as if they came 
from that quarter — and — and I am sure I 
heard one note on the piano to give the pitch. 
Hark ! I hear the parlor door softly shut, and 
now the stairs creak, and betray them stealing 
up, as they probably betrayed me stealing down. 
They only blew out the lights and kept per- 
fectly still — Witches ! — Donkey ! 

Etty, your voice is still with me, clear, sweet, 
and penetrating, as it was when you talked so 
eloquently to-night, in our dreamy ramble. — 



184 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

What if I had early adopted her idea, that with 
every conscious power is bound up both the 
duty and the pleasure of developing it ? Might 
I not now have reached higher ground, with 
health of body and mind? Ambition is an un- 
healthy stimulus. A wretchedly uneasy guest 
too, in the breast of an invalid. I would fain 
have a purer motive, which shall dismiss or 
control it. 

Etty, — what are the uses to be made of her 
talents, while she lives thus withdrawn into a 
world of her own? Certainly, she is wrong; I 
shall convince her of it, when our friendship, 
now fairly planted, I trust, shall have taken root. 
Now we shall be the best friends in the world, 

and I will confide to her my — my O, I 

am nodding over my paper, and that click says 
the old clock at the stair-head is making ready 
to announce midnight. 

Sept. 29lh. Capricious are the ways of wo- 
mankind I Little Ugly is more thoroughly self- 
occupied and undemonstrative than ever. I am 
chagrined, — I think I am an ill-used man. I am 
downright angry and have half a mind to flirt 
with Little Handsome, out of spite. Only Miss 
Etty is too indifferent to care. I did but leave 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 



185 



my old aunt to Flora, and step back to remark 
that it was a pleasant Sunday, that the sermon 
was homely and dull, and that the singing was 
discordant. Miss Etty assented, but very coldly, 
and presently she bolted into an old red house, 
and left me to go home by myself. When we 
started for church again, she was among the 
missing, and we found her in the pew, on our 
arrival. Thus pointedly to avoid me ! — It might 
be accident, however, for she did not refuse to 
sing from the same hymn-book with me, and 
pointed to a verse on the other page, quaint, but 
excellent. After all, old Watts has written the 
best hymns in the language. 

Evening. Without choice, I found myself 
walking round the pond again. It was as 
smooth as glass, and the leaves scarcely trem- 
bled on the trees and bushes round it. And in 
my heart reigned a similar calm. A strange 
quiet has fallen on my usually restless and anx- 
ious mind. I thought that in future I could be 
content not to look beyond the present duty, 
and, having done my best in all circumstances, 
that I could leave the results to follow as God 
wills. At that moment I could sincerely say, 
" Let him set me high or low, wherever he has 



186 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

work for me to perform." If I can remain thus 
quiet in mind, my health will soon return, I feel 
assured. 

" If! " A well-founded distrust, I fear. This 
peace must be only a mood, to pass away when 
my natural spirits return. The fever of covet- 
ousness, of rivalry, of envy, and ambitious 
earthly aspirations, will come back. Like waves 
upon the lake, these uneasy feelings will chase 
each other over my soul. I picked up a little 
linen wristband at this moment, which I recog- 
nized. " She does not deserve to have it again, 
sulky Little Ugly I " said I. " I will put it in my 
pocket-book, and keep it as a remembrancer, for 
— I am glad to perceive — this is the very spot 
where we stood when we agreed to remember 
it and each other fifteen years hence. "We will 
see what I shall be then, and I shall have some 
aid from this funny little talisman ; it will speak 
to me quite as intelligibly and distinctly as its 
owner in a silent mood, at any rate." 

Heigh-ho! How lonely 1 feel to-night! Every 
human soul is — must be — a hermit, yet there 
might be something nearer companionship than 
I have found for mine as yet. No one knows 

me. My real self Ha I old fellow, I like 

you better than I did ; let us be good friends. 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 187 

Sept. SOih. A golden sunrise. How much 
one loses under a false idea of its being a lux- 
ury to sleep in the morning! Reclining under 
Farmer Puddingstone's elm, and looking upon 
the glassy pond, in which the glowing sky mir- 
rored itself, my soul was fired with poetic inspi- 
ration. On the blank page of a letter, I wrote : 

" How holy the calm, in the stillness of morn," — 

and threw down my paper, being suddenly 
quenched by self-ridicule, as I was debating 
whether to write " To Ethelind " over the top. 
Returning that way after my ramble, I found 
the following conclusion pinned to the tree by 
a jack knife : — 

"How holy the calm, in the stillness of morn, — 
When to call 'em to brcakfl^st Josh toots on the horn, 
The ducks gives a quack, and the caow gives a moo, 
And the childen chimes in with their plaintive boo-hoo. 

" How holy the calm, in the stillness of neune, 
When tlie pot is a singin its silvery teune, — 
Its soft, woolly teune, jest like Aribi's Darter, 
While the tea-kettle plays up the simperny arter. 

" How holy the calm, in the stillness of night, 
When the moon, like a punkin, looks yaller and bright; 
While the aowls an' the katydids, screeching like time, 
Jest brings me up close to the eend o' my rhyme." 



188 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

And underneath was added, as if in scorn of 

my fruitless endeavor : — 

" I wrote that are right off, as fast as you 
could shell corn. S. P." 

I suppose it is by way of thanks for my hav- 
ing driven the pigs from the garden, that I find 
a great bunch of dahlias adorning my mantel- 
piece. A brown earthen pitcher! And in the 
middle of the dahlias, a magnificent sunflower! 
It must be my aunt's doing, and its very home- 
liness pleases me, just as I love her homely sin- 
cerity of affection. Who arranges the glasses 
in the parlor ? Etty, I would not fear to affirm, 
from the asters and golden-rod, cheek by jole 
with petunias and carnations. I wonder if she 
would not like some of the clematis I saw 
twining about a dead tree by the pond. It is 
more beautiful in its present state than when it 
was in flower. Elty loves wild flowers because 
she is one herself, and loves to hide here in her 
native nook, where no eye (I might except my 
own) gives her more than a casual glance. 

Noon. " I shall think it quite uncivil of Little 
Ugly if she does not volunteer to arrange my 
share of the booty I am bringing, now that I 
have almost broken my neck, and quite my 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 189 

cane, to obtain it." This I said to myself, as I 
came into the house by the kitchen entrance, 
and proceeded to deposit my trailing treasures 
on Norah's table, by the side of a yellow squash. 

"Do go with me to Captain Black's," said 
Etty's voice at the side door. " The old folks 
have not seen you since your return." 

" I can't ! " said Flora with a drawl. 

" Yes, do ! Be coaxable, for once ! " 

" It only makes me obstinate to coax. Why 
not go without me, I beg? " 

" I am no novelty. I was in twice only yes- 
terday. Old people like attention from such as 
you, because " 

" Because it is unreasonable to expect it." 

" The old man is failing." 

" I can't do him any good. It is dusty, and 
my gown is long." 

" It would please him to see you. I went to 
sit with him yesterday, but Timothy Digfort 
came in, with the same intent. So I went to 
church, having walked in the graveyard till the 
bell rang." 

" Owl that you are I I don't envy you the 
lively meditations you must have had. Why 
don't you go ? It 's of no use waiting for me." 



190 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

"What! Will you let me carry both these 
baskets ? " 

" There, put the little one on the top of the 
other. I don't think three or four peaches and a 
few flowers can add much to the weight. It is 
tiresome enough to do what I don't want to do, 
when it is really necessary." 

And Little Handsome danced into the parlor, 
without perceiving me. I laid a detaining hand 
on Etty's basket as she put herself in motion, 
on which she turned round with a look of un- 
feigned astonishment. 

" May I not be a substitute for Flora ? " I 
inquired. 

" I do not require any aid" said Miss Etty 
shyly. " It is not on that account I was urging 
Flora. Please to let me have the basket. — In- 
deed, it is quite unnecessary you should trouble 
yourself," she insisted, as I persevered in carry- 
ing off my load. 

" It is the old red house, is it not ? " said I, 
"with the roof sloping almost to the ground. 
And shall I say that you sent this? A view of 
my strange phiz will not refresh the old people 
like the sight of Flora's fresh young face, but I 
shall go in, and make the agreeable as well as 
I can." 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 191 

"Are you really in earnest?" asked Etty, 
looking full in my face, with a smile of wonder 
that made her radiantly beautiful. She turned 
away blushing at my surprised and eager gaze, 
and, taking up her little basket, joined me, with- 
out a word of answer on my part. It was 
some time before I quite recovered from a 
strange flurry of spirits, which made my heart 
bump very much as it does when I hear any 
unexpected good news. And then I dashed 
away upon the subject of old age, and any thing 
else that came uppermost, in the hope of draw- 
ing the soul-lighted eyes to mine again, with 
that transfiguring smile playing upon the lips. 

But I was like an unskilful magician ; I had 
lost the spell; I could not again discover the 
spring I had touched. In vain I said to myself, 
" I '11 make her do it again I " Little Ugly 
would 'nt ! 

She answered my incoherent sallies in her 
usual sedate manner, and I believe it was only 
in my imagination that her cheek dimpled a 
little, with a heightened color, now and then, 
when I was particularly eloquent. 

Introduced by Miss Etty, I was cordially wel- 
comed. I am always affected by the sight of 



192 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

an aged woman who at all reminds me of the 
grandmother so indulgent to my prankful boy- 
hood. The old man, too, interested me ; he 
has seen much of the world, in his seafaring 
life, and related his adventures in a most un- 
hackneyed style. I '11 go and see them every 
day. One of the Captain's anecdotes was very 
good. " An old salt," he said, " once — once 

" Bah, what was it? How very lovely 

Etty looked, sitting on a cricket at the old wo- 
man's feet, and, with a half smile on her face, 
submitting her polished little head to be stroked 
by her trembling hands ! This I saw out of the 
corner of my eye. 

Hark ! Aunt Tabitha's call to dinner. I am 
glad of it. I was scribbling such nonsense, when 
I have so much to write better worth while. 

12 o'clock. The night is beautiful, and it is a 
piece of self-denial to close the shutter, light 
my lamp, and write in my journal. Peace of 
mind came yesterday, positive happiness to-day, 
neither of which I can analyze. I only know 
I have not been so thoroughly content since the 
acquisition of my first jackknife, nor so proud 
since the day when I first sported a shining 
beaver. I have conquered Etty's distrust; she 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 193 

has actually promised me her friendship. I am 
rather surprised that I am so enchanted at this 
triumph over a prejudice. I am hugely delight- 
ed. Not because it is a triumph, however; — 
vanity has nothing to do with it. It is a wor- 
thier feeling, one in which humihty mingles with 
a more cordial self-respect than I have hitherto 
been conscious of. I can, and I will, deserve 
Etty's good opinion. She is an uncompromis- 
ing judge, but I will surprise her by going be- 
yond what she believes me capable of. I never 
had a sister; I shall adopt Etty, and when I go 
home, we will write every week, if not every 
day. 

But how came it all about ? By what blessed 
sunbeams can the ice have been softened, till 
now, as I hope, it is broken up for ever ? Peo- 
ple under the same roof cannot long mistake 
each other, it seems, else Etty and I should 
never have become friends. 

As we left the door of Captain Black's house, 
and turned into the field path to avoid the dust, 
Etty said, " I do not know whether you care 
much about it, but you have given pleasure to 
these good old people, who have but little vari- 
ety in their daily routine, being poor, and infirm, 

13 



194 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

and lonely. It is really a duty to cheer them 
up, if we can." I felt that it warmed my heart 
to have shared that duty with her, and I said so. 
I thought she looked doubtful and surprised. 
It was a good opening for egotism, and I im- 
proved it. I saw that she was no uninterested 
listener, but all along rather suspicious and in- 
credulous, as if what I was claiming for myself 
was inconsistent with her previous notions of 
my disposition. I believe I had made some 
little impression Saturday night, but her old 
distrust had come back by Sunday morning. 
Now she was again shaken. 

At last, looking up with the air of one who 
has taken a mighty resolve, she said, " I presume 
such a keen observer as yourself must have no- 
ticed that the most reserved people are, on some 
occasions, the most frank and direct. I am go- 
ing to tell you that I feel some apology due to 
you, if my first impressions of your character are 
really incorrect. I am puzzled what to think." 

" I am to suppose that your first impressions 
were not as favorable as those of Mrs. Black, 
whom I heard remark that I was an amiable 
youth, with an uncommonly pleasant smile." 

" Just the opposite, in fact, — pardon me ! To 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 195 

^y eye, you had a mocking, ironical cast of 
countenance. I felt sure at once you were the 
sort of person I never could make a friend of, 
and acquaintances I leave to Flora, who wants 
to know every body. I thought the less I had 
to do with you the better." 

I felt hurt, and almost insulted. I had not 
been mistaken, then ; she had disliked me, and 
perhaps disliked me yet. 

" It w^as not that I stood in fear of your sat- 
ire," she continued ; " I am indifferent to ridi- 
cule or censure in general ; no one but a friend 
has power to wound me." 

A flattering emphasis, truly ! I felt my tem- 
per a little stirred by Miss Etty's frankness. I 
was sulkily silent. 

"/had no claim to any forbearance, any con- 
sideration for peculiarities of any sort. I am 
perfectly resigned to being the theme of your 
wit in any circle, if you can find aught in mi/ 
country-bred ways to amuse you." 

Zounds I I must speak. 

" My conduct to Flora must have confirmed 
the charming impression produced by my un- 
lucky phiz, I imagine. But don't bear malice 
against me in her behalf ; you must have seen 
that she w^as perfectly able to revenge herself." 



196 EXTRACTS FROM THE 

Etty's light-hearted laugh rung out, and re- 
minded me of my once baffled curiosity when 
it reached my ear from Norah's domain. But 
though this unsuppressed mirth of hers revealed 
the prettiest row of teeth in the world, and 
made the whole face decidedly beautiful, some- 
how or other it gave me no pleasure, but rather 
a feeling of depression. My joining in it was 
pure pretence. 

Presently the brightness faded, and I found 
myself gazing at the cold countenance of Little 
Ugly again. 

" No, I did not refer to Flora," said she. " As 
you say, she can avenge her own quarrel, and 
we both were quite as ready to laugh at you, 
as you could be to laugh at us, I assure you." 

" No doubt of it," said I, with some pique. 

" Bat what I cannot forgive you, cannot think 
of with any toleration, is " 

" What ? " cried I, astonished. " How have 
I offended ? " 

" A man of any right feeling at all could not 
make game of an aged woman, his own rela- 
tive, at the same time that he was receiving her 
hearty and affectionate hospitality." 

" Neither have I done so," cried I, in a tower- 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 197 

ing passion. " You do me a great wrong in 
accusing me of it. I would knock any man 
down who should treat my aunt with any dis- 
respect. And if I have sometimes allowed Flora 
to do it unrebukedj you well know that she 
might once have pulled my hair, or cuffed my 
ears, and I should have thought it a becoming 
thing for a young lady to do. I have played 
the fool under your eye, and submit that you 
should entertain no high opinion of my wisdom. 
But you have no right to judge so unfavorably 
of my heart. If I have spoken to my aunt with 
boyish petulance when she vexed me, at least it 
was to her face, and regretted and atoned for to 
her satisfaction. I am incapable of deceiving 
her, much less of ridiculing her either behind her 
back or before her face. I respond to her love 
for me with sincere gratitude, and the sister of 
my grandmother shall never want any attention 
that an own grandson could render while I live. 
I shall find it hard to forgive you this accusa- 
tion. Miss Etty," I said, haughtily, and shut my 
mouth as if I would never speak to her again. 

She made no answer, but looked up into my 
face with one of those wondrous smiles. It 
went as straight to my heart as a pistol bullet 



198 EXTRACTS .FROM THE 

could do, my high indignation proving no de- 
fence against it. I was instantly vanquished, 
and as I heartily shook the hand she held out 
to me, I was just able to refrain from pressing 
it to my lips, which, now I think of it, would 
have been a most absurd thing for me to do. 
I wonder what could have made me think of 
doing it ! 

After Dinner. I hear Flora's musical laugh 
in the mysterious boudoir, and a low, congratu- 
latory little murmur of good humor on Etty's 
part. I believe she is afraid to laugh loud, lest 
I should hear her do it, and rush to the spot. 
The door is ajar ; I '11 storm the castle. 

Flora admitted me with a shout of welcome, 
the instant I tapped. Etty pushed a rocking- 
chair toward me, but said nothing. The little 
room was almost lined with books. Drawings, 
paintings, shell's, corals, and, in the sunny win- 
dow, plants, met my exploring gaze, but the 
great basket was nowhere to be seen. It was 
got up for the nonce, I imagine. Etty a rogue I 

" This is the pleasantest nook in the house. 
It is a shame you have not been let in before," 
said Flora, zealously. " You shall see Etty's 
drawings." Neither of us opened the portfolio 



RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 199 

she seized, however, but watched Etty's eyes. 
They were cast down with a diffident blush 
which gave me pain ; I was indeed an intruder. 
She gave us the permission we waited for, how- 
ever. There were many good copies of lessons : 
those I did not dwell upon. But the sketches, 
spirited though imperfect, I studied as if they 
had been those of an Allston. Etty was evi- 
dently in a fidget at this preference of the small- 
est line of original talent over the corrected per- 
formances which are like those of every body else. 
I drew out a full-length figure done in black chalk 
on brown paper. It chained Flora's wondering 
attention as quite new. It was a young man 
with his chair tipped back ; his feet rested on a 
table, with a slipper perched on each toe. His 
hands were clasped upon the back of his head. 
The face — really, I was angry at the diabolical 
expression given it by eyes looking askance, and 
lips pressed into an arch by a contemptuous 
smile. It was a corner of this very brown sheet 
that I saw under her arm, when she vanished 
from the kitchen as I entered; the vociferous 
mirth which attracted me was at my expense. 
Before Flora could recognize my portrait. Little 
Ugly pounced upon it; it fell in a crumpled 



200 RATCLIFFE PAPERS. 

lump into the bright little wood fire, and ceased 
to exist. 

" I had totally forgotten it," said she, with a 
blash which avenged my wounded self-love. 
Ironical pleasure at having been the subject of 
her pencil I could not indulge myself in ex- 
pressing, as I did not care to enlighten Little 
Handsome. Any lurking pique was banished 
when Etty showed me, with a smile, the twilight 
view by the pond. 

" Do you draw ? " she asked ; and Flora cried, 
" He makes caricatures of his friends with pen 
and ink ; let him deny it if he can I " 

I was silent. 



THE END. 



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